Ghost in the Machine
by Smehur
Summary: What if Nihlus didn't die on Eden Prime? This is an AU retelling of Mass Effect where the fateful meeting with Saren plays out differently, changing everything.
1. Arbiter

Note

_Ghost in the Machine_ was written in November 2011, during NaNoWriMo. It is a retelling of _Mass Effect_ under the assumption that Nihlus didn't die on Eden Prime. As such, it is an AU, so I have taken some liberties with the interpretation of the characters and the plot. The lead characters are Nihlus, Saren, Shepard and Garrus, supported by Liara, Tali and Wrex, and forming several pairings which I can't specify without giving spoilers. I assume that my pre-ME stories are true in this AU, the most important being _The Candidate_.

Rated **T** for language, depictions of violence, non-explicit erotic content including same-sex romances, and dark themes.

When you read, please review. No author enjoys asking for this, but the support from the readers means the world to all of us. Thank you, and I hope you'll enjoy.

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><p><strong>Arbiter<strong>

_Two years before the attack on Eden Prime. _

If you were to ask, Nihlus would probably tell you that he loved his job. On any other day, that is. Right now, he imagined that being anything, anything at all, from a mercenary looking for easy credits among the arms dealers in the Verge to a lap dancer in Afterlife on Omega, would be better than being a Spectre. Because, most days, being a Spectre meant eliminating the scum of the Galaxy. It was as simple as that, and it was something Nihlus was extremely good at, although to say he _enjoyed_ it would be taking it a bit too far. But there were days, the never-ending, dreary days, when the Council expected their top military operatives to don fancy civilian suits and act as diplomats, negotiators, or, like today, arbiters.

Nihlus knew all too well why the Council had set _him_ up with this particular job, and not some other Spectre (or Spirits forbid, an actual expert in interstellar law). In part, they had done so because Nihlus was reputed to be a keen judge of character. And then there was the fact that, unlike most Council agents, Nihlus actually liked humans. Assigning him as the arbiter in the reevaluation of the Torfan incident carried the subtle message that the Council supported Humanity in this matter.

Still, he didn't like being in the middle of it. There were so many things he'd rather be doing than interviewing nervous humans all day long. For example, going for a good run around the Presidium Lake with the fantastic soundtrack from "Confederates" turned up on his earpiece. Or having a drink or a dozen down in Chora's Den and checking out their new human dancers, rumored to be identical twins.

He shook the wistful thoughts away, forcing himself to focus on the conversation at hand. The interview with ex-Major Frederick Kyle, the Alliance officer in charge of the vicious attack on Torfan in '78, had already taken more than two hours. This human put Nihlus' patience to the test more times than he cared to admit, despite the awareness that he was dealing with a psychologically unstable individual. Major Kyle had been sweating profusely, avoiding eye contact, and on more than a few occasions, speaking incoherently. Which was unpleasant, but perhaps understandable. What Nihlus could not understand, however, was the Major's unconditional refusal to partake in responsibility for the darker aspects of the operation. To lay all the blame on a junior officer was not only a disgusting display of cowardice, but also a shameful admission of incompetence.

But now he was finally ready to let the Major leave and it was a relief. He stood up and offered a handshake, conforming to the human custom, but regretted it at once, as the Major's hand was limp and cold and wet. When the door closed behind the human, Nihlus glanced at his asari assistant, seated meekly in the corner of the little office, and she gave him a sympathetic shrug. He looked at his right hand, then wiped it on his pants.

"Who's next?"

"Lieutenant Shepard, sir."

Ah. The famed culprit. Nihlus typed into his terminal and a picture of a smiling woman popped up, along with his notes. For some reason he'd thought that 'Butcher of Torfan' was a title better suited for a man. Not that it mattered. She was the last and the prospect of calling it a day woke him up like a shot of stims. He stretched, then drank the last of the water from his glass and gestured to the assistant to refill it and put up a fresh one for the guest.

"Call her in."

The assistant went to the door and peeked through. "Lieutenant Shepard? We're ready for you."

Through the open door, Nihlus could see the Wards, stretching behind the glass wall of the Citadel Tower. A white reflection of a person approaching at a brisk, confident pace ghosted over it before the Lieutenant walked in. An exemplary human female of fine proportions, with an impressive ribbon rack on her white dress uniform. Nihlus could recognize most of the Alliance decorations, but his gaze lingered on the Order of the Silver Spire, awarded by the Council - in most cases, posthumously - for "extraordinary valor at the risk of her life above and beyond the call of duty against an enemy of the Citadel Space." It was one of the few medals that Nihlus had, and Saren didn't. At least, not yet.

She gave him a crisp salute and stood at attention as the door hissed closed behind her. Nihlus took a moment to study her face: perfectly expressionless and pale beneath strikingly red hair, held back by a simple band. Her lips were pressed tight and almost colorless, and her eyes, planted firmly into the wall behind him, were an intensive green quite alike his own.

"At ease, Lieutenant," he said. She relaxed into a more comfortable stance, and her eyes darted left and right, taking his measure, before focusing on his face with a familiar wince of confusion. Nihlus smirked. "No, I regret to say that I am _not_ Councilor Sparatus," he said. He'd been through exactly the same ritual with all the humans he'd interviewed today. "My name is Nihlus. Nihlus Kryik."

He hesitated for a second before offering a hand, but her shake was firm, dry and comfortably warm. "Sir," she said in a pleasant voice betraying only the slightest hint of stress.

"You know why you're here, right?" he said, indicating the guest chair with his chin, and sitting down on his own.

"Yes, sir," she replied, but remained standing. "To answer for Torfan - again."

"Sit down, please."

She seemed ill at ease, something like resentment flashing over her face.

"Relax, Lieutenant. This is an informal hearing. I don't intend to question the findings of the SACOM inquiry. I just want to form my own picture of what really happened."

"Who are you?"

"A Spectre."

Nihlus had to smile at the way she puffed out a sigh of relief. She'd probably thought he was some lawyer or a clerk. That she would be more comfortable talking to a fellow soldier came as no surprise. "Nothing worse than explaining a military operation to a politician, eh?"

"Yes, sir," she said, curling her lips into a small smile. She took a seat then. "So what's this all about?"

"Several things." He leaned back into the chair. "The Council is trying to negotiate some sort of a trade agreement with the Hegemony, and the batarians named reparations for the Torfan incident as one of the terms. But more importantly, it's in keeping with the open records policy."

"Right." The sarcasm in her tone was unmistakable. "Anything for a seat in the Council."

"You don't support the efforts of the Alliance to join the Council?"

"What I don't support is all the ass kissing. Sir."

Nihlus huffed at that. Humanity was expected to do a much better job at ass-kissing than they had been doing so far if they were to gain more political power in Citadel Space. Most humans believed it was worth it, but there were others, like the Lieutenant here, who would rather shoulder their way in. Which was, strangely enough, an equally viable option. The Council had no misgivings about letting the humans do their dirty work; Torfan was an extreme example, but a definite case in point of this double-faced politics.

"Ass kicking works too," he said, wondering if she'd catch the context. "As long as it's directed outwards."

"In other words, you'd rather have us inside the tent, pissing out, than outside the tent, pissing in."

"I'm guessing that's a reference to the specifics of human anatomy?"

The Lieutenant changed color at that. Her face looked much more interesting, perhaps even pretty, with the blush and the embarrassment livening her eyes. "I apologize, sir. That was out of line."

"It's fine, Lieutenant. You're right, of course. What happened on Torfan was grim business, but the Council stood to profit from it. And you made sure of it."

She arched her eyebrows at him, looking as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him right. Nihlus shrugged. "A half finished job would have benefited no one," he said. "That was never in question."

"So what is?"

"The people who surrendered."

Nihlus hadn't exactly planned to deliver the blow just when he saw that she'd put her guard down, but it turned out rather well. Her attitude morphed from cocky and almost playful to tired, beaten and bored in a matter of seconds.

"I have nothing to say about that," she said, tossing her head back in a challenging gesture. "It's all in the file. Sir."

Now he planted his elbows on the desk and studied her face up close. The color had drained from it again, and the eyes were now animated by something Nihlus recognized with a pinch of unease, as it reminded him of his own main defense mechanism. Spite. The self-destructive kind.

"Just tell me why, Shepard," he said at last and she jumped a little at the sound of her name. "Were you ordered to?"

He had to ask the question even though his judgment of her character had taken shape already. She appeared to be a proud and honorable woman, and would not attempt to displace the blame. Unless it was true, of course; but then she would have said so on the trial that had taken place immediately after the incident. Nihlus knew very well how these things worked: she might have received informal instruction to leave no loose ends, but certainly not to execute the prisoners. For a big-shot such as Admiral Hackett, it simply wouldn't have been worth all the inevitable fuss.

So when she shook her head, he believed her.

"It was a tactical decision," she said. "My decision."

"What possible tactical advantage can you gain from killing unarmed prisoners?"

"It's all in the file."

"I want to hear it from you."

"Why?"

"Because I'm to decide if the inquiry should be reopened. Or promoted to a war-crime trial before COIL."

From the way her throat started working, Nihlus concluded that he'd executed another well placed stab. He couldn't help thinking that Saren would've been proud, which didn't exactly make him feel good about it. It had to be done, though. He liked this Lieutenant for her spite and her pride, and yes, for the very impressive band of decorations on her chest. She reminded him of everything he admired about Humanity. But also, of everything the Council feared about it. In both politics and application of military force, humans were ruthless, and as Saren liked to put it, they needed to learn their place.

"You son of a..." she muttered. "You said this was an informal hearing."

"It is, for now. But I will make if official if I have to. So talk to me. Explain the necessity to slaughter two dozen people. Or was it pure cruelty?"

"I didn't have the manpower to secure prisoners," she said through her teeth. "It's all in the fucking file. I had to choose between pressing forward or securing the prisoners until reinforcements arrived, which would have cost us all the momentum. I chose to press forward. That's all there is to it."

"Most of these people were slaves. Harmless. You could have just left them behind."

"They weren't just slaves," the Lieutenant gritted, then made a circle with her jaw, as if trying to loosen up. "They were implanted."

The word triggered a strange grimace on her face, but it only lasted a second before she managed to erase it and Nihlus couldn't catch the meaning. That was fine; he prided himself as an excellent reader of human faces, but some things were simply too personal to be read by anyone, especially an alien.

However, the word had probably triggered a strange grimace on his face as well, which wasn't fine, because he had no idea how well versed _she_ was in reading turian faces. One of his first missions as a Spectre had involved finding and, unfortunately, executing, a number of young girls - practically children - implanted and trained to be sex slaves. But things had changed since those times. He clenched his mandibles tight to hide the unease summoned by the decade-old memory. Things had changed.

"That's treatable," he said at last.

"No," she whispered, lowering her eyes.

Nihlus sat back and sighed. "Thought so. It wasn't cruelty. You think you've done them a favor."

"You don't?"

"It's treatable. It wasn't ten years ago, but it was in '78."

But she was shaking her head. "I don't believe that. What does that mean, anyway? Treatable? Being lobotomized and then spending the rest of your life in an institution? Fuck that kind of life. I'd choose death over that any day."

"Me too," Nihlus said, and that made her pay attention again. "But that doesn't give us the right to decide for others."

Now she laughed, and the cynical note made Nihlus cringe, for it was another thing that reminded him of himself and it was disturbing on a deep, private level.

"Nihlus, right?" she said, and he nodded absently. "Nihlus. You should run that calculation again. They can't _think_ straight with the implants. How the hell are they supposed to decide anything? Sure, the basic instinct is to survive, but you can't call that a decision. And not all of them wanted to survive." Her chin shook, but she stilled it quickly. "You wanted me to talk? Here's something you won't find in the file, so let's see if you'll listen: they begged me to kill them. Not all of them. But many. _They begged_."

"Yeah," Nihlus said. Almost whispered. "I can believe that."

She nodded. "You've seen it yourself?"

"I'm asking the questions here."

"Yes, sir."

But he didn't, not right away. He couldn't help remembering. He had been young and impressionable, but there was more to it. It had been one of those missions where the work itself seemed less relevant than the stark contrast between his own reluctance and the ease with which Saren had executed the targets. And indeed, Saren had been impressed by the reports from Torfan. Had he been in Shepard's shoes, he'd have done exactly the same, and nobody would've thought twice of it because he was a Spectre. The kind of man the Council turned to when failure was not an option, no matter the price.

"What of the rest?" he said at last, checking the file on the terminal. "Three guards, batarian; one guard, turian; two techs, batarian; two techs, human. Why did you execute them?"

She looked at him with a tired sigh. "I told you already: holding prisoners would have endangered the mission, and my only concern was to see it through, no matter the cost. _Those_ were my orders. I had split seconds to make decisions. I simply did what I had to do. And I have _nothing_ else to say about it. Sir."

Nihlus watched her in silence for a while. He knew what she was talking about. Even the most experienced soldiers could lose their wits in the heat of combat. The brain resigns and the body does what it's been trained to do and when you come around with dried blood and alien entrails on your hands you can only thank the Spirits that you're a Spectre, working alone, so nobody will ever know.

Oh yes. It had happened to him. Nothing on this scale, but he had been in the business for long enough to accumulate a decent collection of things he'd regret for the rest of his life. But did _she_ regret? Nihlus couldn't tell. In fact, he had the feeling that no amount of further questioning would answer that.

He took a deep breath. "From everything I've seen here and read about the mission and the trial, you coped with it remarkably well," he said. "Unlike your ex CO."

Shepard looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and huffed. "Well is not the word I'd use."

That sounded incredibly honest and Nihlus had to smile. "Fair enough," he said. When he looked closer, he noticed that her hands were not only folded in her lap: she was squeezing them with a desperate urgency that made him feel sorry. The kind of reaction Saren would despise him for. Yes, she was nervous and perhaps even scared, and no, she was certainly not the heartless monster the title of the Butcher of Torfan suggested. But she _had_ executed more than twenty men and women, and it was his fucking duty to rub it in.

Be careful with pity, Nihlus, said his teacher's voice in the back of his mind, sending chills down his spine. Pity is only a gift when you bestow it on the truly helpless. Otherwise, it's nothing but an insult.

There were several more items on the list he'd scribbled next to her name, but those that mattered - was it an order? was it cruelty? - had been checked and he decided it was enough.

"I've no more questions," he said, standing up. She did the same. "You're free to go."

"So what's it going to be?"

"Hm?"

"What's the verdict?"

Nihlus snorted. "I'm no judge, Shepard." But she kept looking at him, insisting, until he deflated. "I'll recommend against further legal action."

She let out a huge sigh of relief, which he rewarded with another appreciative grin. Most people lacked the courage to put their fears and hopes out there where others could see and abuse them. And Nihlus appreciated courage. Despite everything, he liked her. A lot. He wouldn't forget her in a hurry.

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><p>SACOM: Systems Alliance Court Martial<br>COIL: Court of Interstellar Law


	2. Dinner

#

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><p><strong>Dinner<strong>

_One year before the attack on Eden Prime._

Liara was cold. She glanced at Mother, and Mother glanced back as if to say, stop fidgeting already. But Liara's toes were freezing and she was trying to wriggle them inside her inappropriately light boots. The effort must have made her face look funny, for Mother shot her another scolding look.

Goddess, she was unbearable. If only they had been alone, Liara would have simply upped and left. She had gotten rather good at that during the past decade but it seemed like this meeting would throw all her ideas about standing up to Mother's condescension to dark space. No matter how hard she tried to fight it, spite welled up in her and she stared back like a stubborn little brat. A vicious circle, as humans called it: Mother's presence was insufferable enough to degrade her mental facilities, regressing her right into the child Mother took her to be.

Being drunk was not helping her case either. But she was not drunk enough to be warm and now she made a show of having shivers.

"I'll turn up the heat," Saren said, ending the silent quarrel.

Liara jumped at the sound of his voice. The three of them were sitting at an oval and ridiculously long table in the cavernous room that made up the better part of Saren's apartment on Noveria. Everything inside was white, or at best, a pastel shade. Mother had told her that Saren did not like bright colors. For some reason, Liara thought it a mark of a sad man. But Saren did not look like he was sad. Ever. Most of the time, he seemed to be... annoyed.

Still, he was the perfect gentleman. On the way back from the control panel on the white wall, he picked up another bottle of white wine from the white cabinet, and filled her glass, and Mother's. Mother had told her that Saren did not like to drink. He only took water and tea. And he ate surprisingly little for a biotic. Liara's appetite wasn't up to her usual standards tonight, perhaps on account of the cold. Between the two of them, Mother's repeated servings of everything laid out on the white table seemed very unladylike.

Saren had served them many delicacies from different worlds and Liara was under the impression that he had prepared at least some, if not all of them, himself. There was a hand-made air to all of it, from smells to tastes to arrangements, though they certainly looked professional. She had spent many minutes gathering the courage to ask him about it. What if cooking was somehow... what was the word... _emasculating_ in turian culture? But if that were so, why would he do it?

She became aware that he was watching her and she promptly blushed, then tried to hide it by gulping down her wine. Goddess.

"Liara, slow down," Mother said, making her blush even harder. In that moment she hated Mother so intensely she could scarcely keep her biotics from flaring out. She hated dining with Mother and walking with Mother and being anywhere near any other people with Mother because she was never safe from embarrassments like this. Of course nothing could be done about it and she simply complied, putting the glass down. A finger of pale golden fluid remained. After a second of observing it, Liara snatched the glass and downed it.

Mother let out an exasperated sigh, then helped herself to some more cake. Saren was still watching Liara. He apparently had no scruples whatsoever when it came to staring at people and soon it became unbearable. She cleared her throat and said, "Did you prepare all of this yourself?"

"I did," he replied. Then, after a second, "How can you tell?"

Liara shrugged. "Home-made food has... heart." She offered him a wide smile, which convinced her that Mother had been right, and that she had drunk the wine too quickly. But it was nice. She could feel her toes again.

Saren's browplates arched, just a little, and he surveyed the food on the table. "I assure you, none of the dishes contain-"

"What Liara meant," Mother intervened before he could finish, "is that people who cook for their guests invest welcoming feelings into the process, and this can be tasted in the food."

Liara turned to Mother with a mortified stare. Surely this explanation was completely unnecessary and even insulting? Saren was a strange man indeed, but certainly he was not...

"Mm," he muttered, obviously accepting the interpretation, and Liara's unbelieving eyes went back to him. She had to chuckle at his blank expression, and from the way Mother looked at her, Liara was sure she would have kicked her under the table if only they had been seated closer.

"I am sorry," she said, clearing her throat, though Saren did not seem to be particularly moved by her indecency. "It was really excellent. All of it. Especially this... what was it called again?" She pointed with her finger and of course it went straight into the gelatinous sauce, and, being drunk as she was, she sucked on it with a delicious smack. It all happened in the course of seconds but Liara was entirely sure that Mother kept count of all her social failures.

Saren nodded. "Retu-pudding," he said. "A quarian recipe. Made entirely from racemic ingredients."

"Racemic?"

He started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. What he said in the end was, "Equal parts levo and dextro."

"Ah. An unfamiliar term." But the feeling that she was missing something was very familiar. "Ah! That's why you're not eating?"

"Liara!"

"What?"

Mother was positively appalled, but Saren looked... amused. In fact, one of his mandibles was slightly slanted in the turian substitute for a smile. A very small smile, but more than enough to make Liara smile back. He turned to Mother, then, and they exchanged some silent communication Liara could not understand. After that Mother relaxed a little. She ran a hand over her stomach, probably full to bursting, then reached for the _other_ cake anyway.

"What is your next destination?" Saren said after a while.

It took Liara some seconds to understand that he was addressing her, and then a few more to understand the question. "Oh! That. I will be flying to Therum in two weeks."

"The human colony in the Traverse?"

"Yes. It is riddled with Prothean ruins, but of course the colonists have picked them clean a long time ago. The University paid a great deal of money to EAE to preserve any new ones they might find while mining. This is the first time they called."

Saren grunted, but this time, Mother spoke before he could. "Humans are greedy."

"Everybody is greedy, Mother," Liara said. "And given the recent shortage of Prothean artifacts on the black market, it is a wonder EAE did not decide to plunder the new site themselves and sell the findings - they would surely stand to profit."

There was actually nothing wondrous about it; Liara simply relished every opportunity to contradict Mother. Of course the human mining company had tried to change the terms of the agreement, but the University had threatened to sue and she had overheard more than a few heated debates in the Department about the prospect of working anywhere near humans again. It turned out it was well worth it, though. The technicians who had gone ahead of the research team had already reported detecting buried chambers, possibly untouched since the Exodus.

"Shortage," Saren repeated after her, exchanging yet another mysterious look with Mother. Liara was almost sure it was not a question, but decided to answer anyway.

"Indeed. Either the AFPPOL became a lot more efficient than they used to be, or there is someone out there, collecting. Whatever the cause, the prices have never been this high. It is making my job very difficult."

"And dangerous," Mother said. "I don't understand why you can't have the artifacts shipped to the University."

It was supposed to be a challenge, but Liara refused to be drawn into _that_ quarrel again. Instead, she opted for a slight change of subject, and addressed her question directly to Saren.

"How did the humans get to settle so many Prothean worlds?"

Saren inclined his head to the side, studying her, and either that or the wine suddenly made her very warm. "Prothean worlds are damaged goods. Nobody _else_ wants to settle them. But at the rate the humans have been expanding, they can't afford to pick and choose." He paused. "Your mother is right. Humans are greedy, only not for riches. They hunger for power. At the moment, quick expansion is the most obvious way to secure their place in Galactic society and the Council finds this agreeable. They intend to let the humans settle the border regions, then adopt them, when the political climate is right."

"You mean, let them join the Council?"

"It is bound to happen."

Liara nodded. Nothing she did not know already, but listening to Saren was a rare pleasure. She had no outstanding feelings for humans in general, and was always confused by the dislike so many people had for them. Mother and Saren being among those people. Liara thought to use the context of the conversation and ask why, but Saren spoke before she had a chance.

"More wine?"

"Yes," said Liara.

"No," said Mother at exactly the same time.

But Saren was up already, and despite the refusal, he filled both their glasses again. He swirled the remaining wine in the bottle, sniffed discreetly at the neck, and finally drained it into his own glass. It barely reached the half mark. Liara's hand was on her glass already, but fortunately she checked herself in time and left it alone as Saren lifted his.

"To your health," he said, giving her an elegant bow of the head and turning to mirror the courtesy to Mother. They all sipped. For the first time since the beginning of the dinner, Liara was sufficiently at ease to actually taste it. Sweet, fruity, and just the right temperature. As in everything else, Saren seemed to have a perfect taste in wine.

She liked him. A lot. She blushed again, but she had learned the lesson and only took another sip from the glass. Was he watching her again? She did not dare look. He was still standing, rising the glass to his mouth every so often. Both his and Mother's capacity for long spells of silence was infuriating. Perhaps that was how they had become friends? By sitting together for stretches of time and saying nothing at all? Liara smiled at that image, shooting another shy glance at him.

Saren was tall and oddly proportioned, for a turian. He had broad shoulders, narrow hips and unusually heavy arms and legs. Mother had told her that he had lost his left arm in some terrible accident, and that he was wearing a prosthetic replacement, but Liara would never have guessed it just by looking at him. He moved with the grace of a dancer. Or a martial artist. Yes, that was much more likely. Liara had met him several times in the past and had seen him in different kinds of attire, which seemed to bring out different aspects of his personality. The one wearing a custom-built hard-suit riddled with all kinds of unrecognizable upgrades, she would be comfortable never meeting again. But tonight he was wearing a long white robe over a suit of gentle gray that went well with the colorless pallor of his inexpressive face. When wearing robes, he appeared and acted... regal. Yes. And she found it incredibly sexy.

Liara wondered, and not for the first time, if Mother thought so too. If they were lovers. There were no obvious threads of intimacy running between them. Oh, certainly they were very close; the level of their nonverbal communication testified to that in no uncertain terms. But was there more? Liara caught herself wishing that the answer was no. She could have asked Mother on a number of occasions, yet she never did, out of fear that she would not like the answer. Of course she was aware that Mother took lovers from a time to time, but Saren had been around for almost two years now. No, they probably were not lovers, Liara convinced herself. A couple with a history of two years would not be so careful to avoid... touching.

Her train of thought was interrupted when someone's omni beeped. Mother's. She glanced at her wrist, then stood up. "I apologize. I have to take this."

"You may use the terminal in the bedroom," Saren said, indicating a general direction with his chin, and Liara secretly rejoiced. Had they been lovers, surely he would not have to tell her where the bedroom was.

Mother stalked away, her lush silver gown rustling luxuriously around her long legs. A gorgeous woman; Liara's own childish cuteness was a distant echo of that aristocratic, almost ethereal, beauty. She got up with an envious sigh, casting a mournful look down her own body, still somewhat chubby, yet not rounded enough, and the simple uniform of her research institute was doing little to compliment it. It would be another fifty years or so before she would start showing some real curves, and by that time, Saren would be an old man. If he lived that long at all. Spectres tended to die young.

"Let me help you clear the table," she said.

"It's not necessary."

"But I want to."

Saren muttered a reluctant approval, and as Liara picked up her plate and Mother's, he took the heavy bowl with leftover soup and led the way to the kitchen, separated from the big room with a wide curtain of white glass-beads. Liara inspected the contents of the plates in her hands and recited a quick little prayer for pardon before allowing herself to stumble over a nonexistent bump on the floor, slamming the dishes into Saren's chest just as he turned after putting down the soup.

"Goddess," she exclaimed, and there was no reason to fake distress, because she had failed to include the shattering of the dishes into her calculation. But how could she have guessed they were really ceramic? It was so decadent! Yet unbelievably _fitting_. "I am so sorry!"

She looked up at him, and there it was: annoyance. It shone from his predatory gaze like a warning beacon and, Goddess forgive her, Liara felt it like living touch on her skin. "I am so very sorry," she repeated, then made a motion as if to go down on her knees and collect the greasy shards.

"Leave it," he instructed, and she straightened up. His expensive white robe was a mess, which was exactly what she had planned, and now she snatched a dry cleaning cloth from behind him and started patting the wet stains, relishing the warmth of his stone-hard body, readily felt even through so many layers of clothing. But he would not have it. He caught her wrist with his right hand, although it would have made much more sense to use the left. Still, the grip was not gentle. When she looked into his eyes again, she found a kind of serious contemplation there that was very different from his usual assortment of non-expressions. Yet it was not new.

Liara had already attempted something like this close to a year before, when Saren had come looking for Mother on Thessia. He had been in a more... receptive mood then, or so it seemed, although of course he excused himself and left in a hurry before she could do anything other than steal the lightest touch of his magnificent crest, as if by accident. He would not allow anything like it now; that much was clear. Liara pouted, trying the last desperate measure: the cute-attack.

She thought she would either freeze or melt under his stare - she was not yet ready to decide which - and then Mother had to come back and ruin it, as she always did.

"What happened?" she said, looking at the mess of the shattered dishes between them.

"Nothing," Saren said, spelling the word very carefully. He released Liara's wrist, but still held her gaze. "Nothing at all."

Liara nodded, although she did not want to. The message was clear enough.

"We have to go," Mother announced, a purple blush covering her face and bust. "Liara, come."

Saren followed them to the door with the marred robe folded over his arm, looking even more imposing in the tight-fitting suit, even though it made the asymmetry between his right arm and the prosthesis that replaced his left, very obvious. Which would not have bothered Liara the least, had she... had they... She was feeling absolutely defeated and kept casting sad glances at him, but the way he deflected them, expertly, just buried her lingering hopes deeper and deeper. He helped Mother into her rich fur coat without a word, and when he dropped Liara's inadequate jacket over her shoulders, he managed to do so without touching her even for a split second.

The cold air outside the apartment sobered her up in no time. On their way to the car, a tall turian with striking white markings that made him look a lot like Councilor Sparatus walked past them. He paused when he saw Mother, and Mother paused when she saw him. They only exchanged a polite little bow of the heads, however.

"Who's that?" Liara asked several steps later. "He's handsome," she added with a smile.

"Nobody important," Mother said. But the nervous twitching of her right eye, a trait Liara unfortunately seemed to have inherited, gave an entirely different answer.

* * *

><p>EAE: Eldfell-Ashland Energy<br>AFPPOL: Agency for Preservation of Prothean Legacy


	3. Warning

#

* * *

><p><strong>Warning<strong>

_Five days before__ the attack on __Eden Prime._

Tali didn't think her heart could possibly beat any faster until she opened the viewport on her tiny vessel and saw the thing with her own eyes. The sight stole the breath from her lips and sent freezing shivers down her spine. The ship was definitely there. It was definitely real. And it was definitely designed by the geth.

She stared at it, transfixed, with wide open eyes and wide open mouth until her quickened, shallow breathing started fogging the mask and the soft buzzing of the suit air conditioning unit snapped her out of it. Dead, she remembered, the ship is dead. It had been passing just above the corona of an old, orange sun, presumably trying to avoid accidental thermal detection, when a sudden flare burst out, frying all its systems. At least she assumed so, because it was sinking. With no propulsion and no mass effect drive, it wouldn't make it past half a revolution.

That thought set her hands in motion, despite the fear that was making them shake. She scanned the ship again; she had to be absolutely sure. The schematics she'd pulled from the databases of the Flotilla were old. Really old. But the key design points matched with the frightening correlation coefficient of 0.99. It _was_ a geth ship. In the middle of Citadel space!

"Keelah," she whispered in the deep silence. The flare had left her own ship without a number of systems as well, and the humming of the Lilei was strangely subdued. Another wave of shivers shook her. She looked around, trying to get her brain back online. What to do?

Call for help.

Yes. Help. She requested the Lilei's VI to open comms to both the Flotilla and the Citadel. But the VI couldn't: there was still too much interference from the material ejected during the outburst. What now?

Go get help.

Oh, but that wouldn't do. She ran another calculation to make sure and yes, the ship didn't have enough angular momentum to maintain a stable orbit. By the time it would take her to fly to the relay, pass through and find someone she could persuade to come back with her - and people in Citadel space were generally _not_ inclined to go out of their way to help quarians - the ship would be sucked into the atmosphere of the star. Or perhaps it would repair itself and go away? That was unlikely. As far as Tali could determine, all its systems, and presumably all the geth inside it, were fried for good. But maybe there were more ships in the vicinity and they could haul it away. In every scenario, leaving now meant that she'd return to find nothing.

That was not acceptable. Fresh information about the geth was the ideal material for her Pilgrimage contribution and she would not see it wasted. What options remain?

Help yourself.

Her chest started heaving with deep breathing and the suit responded by releasing more oxygen into the mixture. But she couldn't afford to ponder. As soon as she realized what it was she had to do, Tali instructed the VI to dock alongside the geth ship immediately.

The wait was agonizing. Tali spent it clutching the hand rests of the pilot chair and sweating profusely. As the Lilei descended, now busy with all the minuscule course adjustments needed to match the trajectories exactly, the geth ship grew closer, larger, and more ominous. Its curves were strangely organic. Almost elegant. She shook her head, trying to shoo away the heresy.

Her trepidation grew by the moment and when the geth ship overfilled the viewport, she felt as if entering the jaws of some horrible monster. The most important lesson that every quarian child had ever learned about the geth was that one could never, _ever,_ trust them. What if she was wrong, and there were still operational units inside? What if they were pretending? Playing dead for some sinister purpose? Was she ready to die?

She considered recording a goodbye message for Father and programming the VI to run back to the Flotilla with it in case she didn't return, but decided it would be too morbid. Of course she'd be back. She simply couldn't die before having out-of-suit sex at least once. Yes.

Finally the Lilei latched onto the larger vessel. It wasn't without shaking and coughing, but it sounded reasonably safe. Tali checked and rechecked her suit and donned her weapons, then added an additional shield generator and the EM stunner to the usual arsenal. Armed with her faithful shotgun and courage borrowed from the romantic adventure novels she was shamelessly addicted to, she went through the airlock and entered the geth ship.

For a moment, she just stood still in the pitch-dark airlock, peering towards the meager lights ahead, listening, and scanning. She was the first quarian to set foot inside a geth ship in more than two hundred years. That made Tali stand tall and hold her shotgun even closer. But before she ventured further, she deployed her combat drone, Chiktikka, to scout ahead. Just in case.

According to the outdated schematics she had studied, this vessel evolved from an antiquated quarian troop transporter. The design was simple and to the point: a long hall with the 'sleeping racks' stacked on the sides. Of course the geth did not sleep; but they would fold into their compact forms and hibernate while inside, plugged into the ship's power core and the central network hub. Some of the racks seemed to have power still; there were lights on the floor, twinkling in suspicious greens, and Tali pointed her shotgun at them. But there were no sounds, save for her respiration. There was no movement anywhere.

Until there was. Up there, near the cockpit! Tali's heart climbed into her throat, the frenetic beating making her vision pulse. There was a geth there, an operational unit. Chiktikka hovered above it. Why wasn't the stupid drone _doing_ anything? Tali pointed her shotgun at the geth, barely resisting the instinct to shoot it, shoot it right away! But soon she saw it was not a threat. It was squirming, clicking and buzzing. It was dying.

Chiktikka wasn't attacking it because Tali hadn't thought to add the geth to the list of viable targets, as she remembered now through the haze of fear and vague hopes. How stupid of her. A mistake she could have paid for with her life. She had been lucky.

And now it was time to be smart as well. Smart and fast, because the ship was crackling and creaking in alarming ways around her. She put the shotgun away and brought up her omni, setting up a link to the dying geth. "Shhh," she told it absently. "Don't worry. This won't hurt."

But of course the geth wouldn't just lie still and take it; as soon as she started reading out its memory core, it started deleting it from the other end. "Come on," she urged the omni through her teeth. "Faster!"

Readout speed was what it was though, and since Tali had only very, very ancient versions of the geth hardware protocols loaded into her omni, it was no wonder that the deletion proceeded some hundred times faster than the copying. Still, she would salvage _something_, which was so much better than nothing. Yes. What a profound thought. Now hurry up, you bosh'tet!

Suddenly the ship shook and she lost her balance, falling hard on her bottom. The visual unit of the dying geth blinked, once, twice, then went out. It was dead. And the ship was falling apart. "Yes, yes, I get it," Tali muttered. "I'm going, all right? I'm going!"

The ship stilled, but the floor became inclined at a ridiculous angle and Tali had to climb it like a ladder to get back to the airlock of the Lilei. It was difficult and it was scary, and all the while she had to fight the images of mechanical hands clawing inches from her feet, drawing near enough to grab her ankle and pull her back just when she climbed within reach of salvation!

Another tremor went through the vessel, nearly dislodging her. Panic took hold and inspired her body into frenetic motion. She scrambled across the threshold and slammed an overexcited fist into the airlock control panel.

The Lilei managed to pull away seconds before the nose of the geth ship started to glow red.

#

_Three days before__ the attack on __Eden Prime._

Tali had been on the Citadel before. Sadly, she'd been forced to register at C-Sec on two of her three previous visits, so she knew her way around. The narrow corridors with office doors on both sides were packed with all the people waiting. While many were transmitting signs of discomfort brought about by the crowd on all the frequencies, fanning themselves with hands and datapads and puffing out air in loud gestures of exasperation, Tali was actually feeling quite at home. She had never been comfortable in large, open, empty spaces.

There was a keeper running diagnostics on a control panel a few steps away from the door Tali was waiting at, and she thought about stepping a bit closer to observe it. She wouldn't dare scan it here, in front of all the curious, hostile eyes. But she'd be damned if she didn't catch one in some dark, concealed corner sooner or later, and saw for herself if they were really impossible to hack. Just as she started to move, the door suddenly opened, and Tali's number popped out above it in huge asari, salarian and turian scripts with an unpleasant beep that made everybody in the corridor jump and stare in her direction.

She passed a large hanar on her way in; the poor thing had most of its glossy, violet tentacles covered in bandages. "What was that all about?" she said, looking after it until the door closed.

"Oh, the usual," said a pleasant turian voice and she turned around. "_That one_ went to preach in the Wards and when it wouldn't leave, some teenagers decided to pull its legs a bit. Literally."

The turian was sitting behind an incredibly cluttered desk covered with everything from datapads and weapon upgrades to plastic bags labeled 'evidence' and a remarkable stack of hardcopy books that looked like... the famous Tal'Moret's "Principles of Geth Construction." Tali's eyes widened in surprise. Of course it was the abridged version, but even those were notoriously difficult to come by. That she ended up in the office of someone in possession of the whole series, given what she'd come to report, seemed like a profoundly fateful coincidence.

The rest of the tiny room was no better than the desk. Every speck of space was taken and the chair she was probably supposed to sit on reminded her of the void that a shield generator would make in a space junk-yard. Her eyes darted from the blue stripes on the turian's face to a lonely leg of a YMIR mech, severed rather cleanly at the hip, standing just behind his chair. Not that the turian could see it, but Tali was grinning from ear to ear. It was almost as if she'd stepped into her own cubicle on the Rayya.

"I'm Garrus Vakarian," the turian said, sounding more than a little bored, then pointed to the chair. "How can I help you?"

"Tali'Zorah nar Rayya," she said, making a slight bow with her head.

"Let me guess. You're here on your Pilgrimage and someone's been molesting you. Accused you of robbery, made nasty threats... no? Hired you to fix something, then refused to pay? Not that either?"

Tali chuckled, taking the seat and letting him squirm. The funny thing was, these were exactly the things she'd reported on her previous visits. But now his browplates fell low and he leaned forward. "You weren't... attacked, were you?" His sharp blue eyes started searching her for signs of injury, but of course, couldn't find anything.

"It's nothing like that," she said at last. "I... I intercepted a geth transmission. I think they are going to attack Eden Prime."

The turian became motionless, his steady stare bearing down on her. Then he leaned back in his chair, with a deepening frown. "Come again?"

Tali swallowed. She had her fears, coming here. Fears of being ignored, distrusted, or perhaps even persecuted. People in Citadel Space were so wary of quarians, and she could understand that, or at least she could keep trying to. But there was nothing other than her word, the voice clip, and a couple of encrypted encyclopedic entries to prove her claim. The geth she'd extracted the information from was gone; the entire ship was gone. It would be easy... it would be trivially easy to dismiss her warnings as some fanciful fabrication.

Still, she had to try. "I intercepted a geth transmission indicating that they could attack Eden Prime. It's a human..."

"I know what it is. Where did this happen?"

"In Denetus."

The turian typed into the terminal on his desk and frowned even more. "No outstanding reports from that system."

Tali took a deep breath. "Of course not. The ship was hiding in the corona."

"Is it still there?"

"I don't think so. There was a flare that disabled it. It was already burning up when I left."

"A flare." He typed into his terminal again, and raised his browplates in surprise, presumably upon discovering there had indeed been a flare in Denetus. "So you intercepted the signal before that?"

Tali sighed. "All right. I'll tell you the whole story. But you have to believe me."

She hated that he could not see her face - if only he could, he would know she was telling the truth. One of the reasons her people were so widely distrusted was surely the fact that they must have appeared to be hiding something behind their masks. But there was nothing she could do about that and she could only pray that her intuition about this man was correct.

Unfortunately, turians wore masks of their own. They were very apt at hiding their feelings when they wanted to, and although this Garrus Vakarian hadn't seemed particularly shy in the beginning, now his face became as impenetrable to her stare as hers was to his. He listened carefully, though, that much she could tell. And when she was done, he sat watching her in silence for an uncomfortably long time.

"Do you have the voice clip with you?" he said at last.

"Of course. Do you want to hear it?"

He nodded, and Tali played the file from her omni.

Something happened the moment the turian voice from the clip filled the little room. Garrus bolted upright and his eyes widened with alert.

"What is it?" Tali asked, cutting the audio off before the part where the asari spoke - it wasn't relevant anyway.

"Play it again," he said, and there was a definite air of excitement about him now. She did as he asked. "I know that voice," he said then, his wide, armored chest heaving. "Let me copy the file so I can verify."

"Sure."

She followed his hands as they danced through the interface, briefly and deftly. The output was hidden from her, but she thought she could read the results directly from his face. "Who is it?"

He shot an unnerved glance at her, then asked the inevitable question. "What guarantee can you give me that this data is authentic?"

"No offense, Officer Vakarian," Tali said with a tired sigh, "but even if I had manipulated the recording, you would never be able to tell. You'll just have to take my word on it."

After a few moments of staring one another down, the turian grunted an annoyed admission. "Garrus," he added, and Tali replied with a nod, her smile hidden behind the mask. He tapped his fingers on the desk, then typed some more into his terminal. "I sent out a warning to the Systems Alliance," he said. "Don't know if they'll take it seriously, coming from a random C-Sec cop, but that's their problem now."

With that, he stood up, picked up something from the desk, and turned his back to Tali, studying a large map of the Galaxy plastered to the wall. Hardcopy too. How old-fashioned.

"Denetus, you say," he muttered, and attached a red pin to mark the coordinates. Now that Tali looked more carefully, she saw that there was at least two dozen pins all over the map, but mostly out of Citadel Space.

"What is that?" she said.

Garrus didn't answer immediately. He stepped back, and Tali was about to warn him that there was a tool box in his way, but obviously he knew his mess very well and elegantly stepped around it. "I don't see a pattern here," he said. "Do you see a pattern here?"

Tali stood up and approached him, careful not to step on anything. She gave the map her best scrutinizing stare. She even tried to defocus her eyes in order to allow the red blur of the pins to jump out from the bright blur of the star map. "No, I don't," she said in the end. "What is it?"

He took another pin from the desk, this one yellow, and attached it to the Exodus Cluster. Eden Prime. Tali gasped, the realization making her hair stand on end. "These are all geth attacks?"

Garrus huffed. "Not if you ask my superior, they aren't. You see, nobody ever catches them at work. They leave nothing behind."

"So why do you think it's them?"

"A lot of circumstantial evidence," he shrugged. "And a feeling in my guts. Which amounts to nothing."

Tali studied him, fighting a sudden urge to comfort him, somehow. As a quarian, she knew all too well what it was like to be ignored and brushed aside. Perhaps that was why he was so quick to believe her? Because he too felt like they had something in common?

"You were lucky to get away with it," he turned to tell her.

She replied with a serious nod. She had been very lucky indeed. "So now what?"

"Now I try _my_ luck." He returned to his desk. "That usually ends in misery and disappointment, but I'm stupid enough to keep doing it."

You're not stupid, she wanted to say, and even blushed a little, but he had already dialed another office, or so it seemed. "Is Pallin still there?" he asked.

"The Executor is just about to leave," replied the voice of a human female.

"Hold him for me?"

"Hold him? Are you cra..."

"Please, Helen," he drawled, and Tali giggled at how his voice become deep and seductive. "I beg you."

"Awwww god," Helen said in a tone of mock desperation. "You turians and your bloody voices. Fine. But hurry!"

Garrus hung up and winked at Tali. "She likes me. Don't go away?"

He was out before Tali could confirm. I like you too, she thought, giggling some more. Turians and their bloody voices indeed. But after a few seconds the spell wore off and she realized she was alone in his office, with his terminal wide open, unsupervised and unprotected. And as she went behind his desk to look at it, she though that perhaps there was some truth in the way everybody perceived quarians as sneaky snoops. There was no way in the universe she could ever resist this temptation.

The voice recognition program was still on and she tapped at it. As she suspected, Garrus had gotten a match. With no less than sixty percent confidence. Probably not something he could use in the court, but rather good, all things considered. Tali squinted at the turian name. Saren Arterius. She kept repeating it in her head until she typed it into her omni. And as the search results poured in, her eyes grew wider and wider.

"Keelah..." she whispered, slowly grasping the astonishing scale of what she had stumbled upon. Tali realized that there must have been many people, powerful people, _rich_ people, who would pay a _lot_ of credits to get their hands on this voice clip. Credits that could be used to finance the rest of her Pilgrimage... perhaps even enough to _end_ it?

A part of her started nagging about the suspicious nature of the plan that was taking shape in her excited mind, but she shut it up quickly. She had carried out her moral obligation and warned about the possible attack on the human colony with no hope of being compensated for the effort and for risking her own life. It was only fair that she should get at least _something_ out of it after all. And besides, the clip belonged to her. She had every right to use it however she saw fit.

Suddenly Tali's heart was pounding as if she were on the geth ship again, but she clenched her jaw and got to work. Her fingers moved through the interface expertly and in a matter of seconds, the voice clip and all traces of its existence were erased from the terminal and any servers the information had managed to reach.

By the time Garrus returned to his office, there was no trace of Tali there either.


	4. Departure

#

* * *

><p><strong>Departure<strong>

_One day before the attack on Eden Prime._

Shepard had never been to Earth and a part of her was frustrated at being so near, yet unable to land - again. She watched the attractive blue globe in its halo of space-junk and blinking satellites, and the desolate white moon next to it. She huffed at it. Of course she'd been _there_, on Luna, for six months of advanced tactical training. With each passing year, the feeling that the fate had allotted her to repeatedly hang just out of reach of the finer things in life, grew stronger and more tangible.

Like the farewell presents. Both she and Julia had been reassigned from the Trafalgar at about the same time; Julia, a tall blond with an impressive bust and a butt that could barely fit the standard hard suit, got a fantastic, hand-spun, sun-silk scarf straight from Armali in a color that would match Shepard's eyes perfectly, and what did Shepard get? A model of the Destiny Ascension. Yes, yes, she loved it, and the entire crew knew about her collection of toy ships, but still.

Or like the time when Major Hendricks needed someone from special forces to escort Lionel Martin to a concert in some famous hall on Palaven. Shepard wanted to go more than anything. First, because she thought that Martin was incredibly hot; second, because she was unbearably curious about the turian homeworld (even more than she was about her own); and last but not least, because the only other N7 on board at that time had been Jameson (god rest his soul), a mountain of meat with a huge bullet hole in his cheek and a shaved head riddled with tattoos. It had been all but settled, and then she received orders to go to the Citadel for an 'informal hearing' about Torfan instead.

It was very fitting to remember that now. An easy shift of focus, and she could observe the perpetual commotion behind her back, reflected in the thick inner glass of the viewport. She was on the Cauchy, an L5 station that used to be a military asset until the Alliance relinquished it to civilian contractors, who retrofitted it into a sprawling trade center. The main street ran along what probably used to be the spacecraft hangar, now lined by three stories of shops and stalls and brimming with people of all species, shapes and sizes. Her mark, a tall, dark-skinned turian with prominent white stripes decorating his bird-like face, was browsing the wares, and as far as she could tell, he was blissfully unaware that he was being watched.

"Nihlus Kryik," she whispered, tasting the name. She'd been following him around for the better part of the hour, since she'd spied him wading through the crowd, towering a head above it, about as inconspicuous as a broken thumb. What was a turian Spectre doing on Earth? She didn't want to think it, but of course her first idea was that he had come for her. To question her again. To threaten her again. To judge her again. She absently touched his reflection on the glass. Despite the fear of reopening that old wound, she harbored no ill feelings for him. Quite to the contrary. That interview had proven to be a cathartic experience, the handful of earth to finally bury Torfan in her memory for good. In a strange way, that brief conversation had done more for her than years of therapy. It had absolved her.

"Nihlus Kryik," she whispered again, and swallowed before she turned to watch him directly. He seemed to be interested mostly in the food stalls and now he appeared to be negotiating the purchase of a large coconut with a volus merchant. There was no one else at the stall, as his heavily modded Phantom hard-suit and an impressive arsenal of prototype weapons were quite efficient at keeping the people well away. Which was why the volus was in a hurry to get rid of him. As Shepard approached, step by careful step, she caught up with the conversation.

"Of course it's safe for turians," the merchant was saying. "It says so right there on the label."

"I want to hear it from you," Nihlus replied, and Shepard smiled a nervous little smile; he'd said something just like that to her two years ago, and she remembered his piercing gaze with startling clarity. She'd felt like she'd been talking to a god damned lie detector.

"All right," the volus said. "_It's safe for turians._"

"Thank you."

Nihlus tossed his credit chit across the stall. The volus failed to catch it, and had to bend over to pick it up, muttering untranslatable curses between loud intakes of air. Shepard stopped a few steps away, still unsure if she really wanted to make her presence known. But then the merchant scanned the chit and tossed it back - and of course Nihlus caught it with a careless twitch of his right hand, holding the coconut in his left. He turned and stepped right in front of her.

"Hello," she said, deliberated for a second, then saluted, even though she was off duty and wearing civvies.

"Commander Shepard." Nihlus gave her a wide smile, looking anything but surprised. "I was hoping you'd quit avoiding me. It will give us a chance to talk on our way to the Normandy."

Shepard took a double take. "The Normandy, sir?"

"They haven't told you? We'll be boarding together." He cast a casual glance at his omni. "We have about half an hour. Buy you lunch?"

Shepard shook her head helplessly. "So you're not here because of...?"

"Oh! No. No, no, no." Nihlus laughed a little then grew serious, or at least, _more_ serious, by degrees. "Spirits, you'd think that, wouldn't you. I'm sorry. No, this has nothing to do with Torfan."

"Thank god," she muttered, deflating. Only now did she realize that her heart was thumping as if she were in the middle of a wrestling match. Nihlus was observing her with a ghost of a turian smile still keeping his mandibles somewhat apart. She tried to smile back. "I put that behind me a long time ago, sir."

"Good to hear." They looked at each other for a couple of breaths, and then he said, "Call me Nihlus."

"Yes, sir - Nihlus."

For some reason, she blushed a little, wondering if he expected her to extend the same courtesy in return. Not something she'd normally be comfortable with, but she found that she'd do it anyway, in order to please him. It seemed important, to please him, just like the last time, and even though the situation could not have been more different, the feeling was the same. Whatever power he'd had over her then, it was not inherent to the circumstances of their first meeting: it was inherent to him.

So she swallowed and made ready to offer her hand, but he spoke again before she could. "So how about that lunch?"

"Uh... I don't think there's time."

"Let's walk, then."

They started down the main street in the direction of the Alliance compound and the starport. Shepard's head was buzzing with questions. About the Normandy, about the mission, about all the hush-hush. About why he was here, and what could he possibly want to talk to her about, if not Torfan. But the busy street was too noisy for such serious topics.

"What's with the coconut?" she said instead, taking the offer to speak informally.

"It's a gift."

"Hopefully not the romantic kind." She thought back on the model of the Destiny Ascension, still unwrapped in the army bag that housed all her earthly possessions, and decided that she had probably been lucky after all.

"It's the perfect gift," Nihlus insisted. "It's endemic to Earth, so it's a good souvenir. It's a symbol of how resourceful you humans are, so it has a meaning. Perhaps even a message. Every part of it can be used for something. You can drink from it, eat it, dry it or cook it, and I intend to make a lamp out of the shell. And last but not least, it won't go bad in a hurry, so I don't have to think about it."

"Must be a cultural thing. A human woman would want a gift that looks nice, or makes _her_ look nice, rather than something so..."

"Practical?"

"Well, yeah."

"Most turians - women or otherwise - appreciate practical gifts."

"Right. You know, if we're going to travel together - or serve together - I ought to warn you that I don't know the first thing about turians. Well, except how to kill them."

Nihlus laughed and nodded. "Don't worry. You're in good hands."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? She had no idea, so she just smiled back. The contrast between how she remembered him and what she was seeing now was making her nervous. A glance at her omni: barely another twenty minutes before she was due to report for duty. _That_ was what she was supposed to be nervous about, not the damn coconut. But now they were at the end of the main street and as soon as they passed the discrete security scanner on the way to the elevators, the air became quieter and cleaner.

"So," she said then. "What brings a turian Spectre to Earth?"

"Several things. As an agent of the Council, I'm supposed to keep an eye on their investment in the Normandy. That's the official story, anyway. Haven't you been briefed?"

"Yeah." Talking about the job at hand was a safe territory and she relaxed a bit. "Yeah, I have. But it's a load of crap, isn't it? Systems testing with the full marine complement _and_ a Spectre observing the first flight? Right."

Nihlus was silent for several steps. "I'm interested in this world we're going to," he said then. "Eden Prime. I've heard it's quite beautiful."

"I've never been there." Of course not. From what she heard, it was a prime vacation destination, but if she ever got shore leave, she'd probably end up on Omega, or worse.

"But you know of it? It has become something of a symbol for your people, hasn't it? Proof that Humanity can not only establish colonies across the Galaxy, but also protect them?"

Shepard stopped. "If you have something to say, just say it."

"Let's keep moving." He took her by the arm and nudged her forward, leaning his head closer and speaking in a subdued voice. "Eden Prime might be in danger. They unearthed a Prothean artifact that appears to be functional. And with the frequency of the raids of Prothean sites and collections..."

"What frequency are we talking here?"

"A dozen raids in the last month? It started about a year and a half back. Not at this intensity, of course, but the scale of some of these operations got my attention quickly. Also, the subject matter," he grinned sideways. "You could say I have a thing for Protheans."

Shepard grunted some indeterminate response, trying to connect the dots. She'd heard about the shortage of Prothean artifacts on the black market; during the recent months it had become a subject of public speculation. But so far she never thought to put that in the context of a dozen fragile, barely settled human worlds in the Terminus and the Verge. All riddled with Prothean ruins. And the Alliance was stretched thin trying to protect them all even without the added angle of fucking treasure hunters.

"So you think Eden Prime might be the target of a raid?"

"I'm almost sure of it. I warned your people there to keep a lid on this thing, but word always gets around."

Something about this didn't sound right. Shepard stopped again and put a hand on his chest. "Now wait just a second. What's the Council's interest in this? Securing the artifact, or the colony?"

Nihlus held her gaze, though his mandibles were twitching in a way that suggested uneasiness or perhaps frustration. Or something else entirely, given the level of her ability to read turian expressions. "Securing the artifact is my top priority," he said at last.

"I fucking knew it," she snorted.

"This goes beyond mere human interests, Shepard. This discovery could affect every species in Council space."

"Oh, come on. That's not what I meant and you know it. See, there I was, thinking that the Council _finally_ decided to show some balls, give us a warning, send a Spectre to help defend our colonies - but noooo. The fucking Spectre is here to play archeology."

"The fucking Spectre is here to evaluate you, Shepard."

She opened her mouth to continue the barrage of complaints and insults against the Council that she'd been growing in there for some years already, then suddenly stilled. "What? Didn't you say..."

"Walk," he said, tugging her forwards again. "You might be surprised to hear this, but I was impressed with you during that interview. That's why I put your name forward as the candidate for the Spectres."

"The Spectres?"

"Don't act surprised. The Alliance has been pushing for this for a long time, and your name came up on every list they've sent us in more than five years. I need to see your skills for myself, though. Eden Prime will be the first of several missions together."

Shepard stopped in her tracks, and this time, when he tried to move her, she didn't budge, even though they were only a few meters short of reaching the destination. "Oh god," was all she managed.

Nihlus looked at the time on his omni, but then dismissed it with what she decided to interpret as a what-the-hell kind of smile, and simply laid his armored hands on her shoulders, stooping a little so that he could look into her eyes.

"It's okay, Shepard," he said. "You'll do fine."

"Yeah," she whispered, then cleared her throat. One surprise too many, and she wasn't all that good at dealing with surprises; at least not the kind she couldn't shoot dead or blow up. She was grateful for the weight of his arms, pinning her to the ground, for otherwise she'd fly off like a feather in the wind. "Yeah. Just tell me what I need to do."

Nihlus tapped her shoulders. "That's the spirit," he said, and she thought, or perhaps just wished, that he looked... proud.

#

_Six hours before the attack on Eden Prime._

Shepard puffed out a giant breath of relief when the door of the cabin finally closed behind her, giving her a moment of privacy she'd been longing for since setting foot on the Normandy early in the afternoon.

The cabin was nothing more than a windowless cubicle like all crew quarters: two-tier bunks to the left and right of the door, a water dispenser and a row of lockers on the far wall. The Normandy was a small, stealth frigate and space was scarce. What made this particular cabin special, was that it would house only two, whereas the others housed eight, in two shifts. Luxury accommodation for the XO and the honored guest. Yes. She was to share quarters with Nihlus.

She didn't mind. God, she didn't mind at all. There was so much she wanted to ask, so much she needed to learn. A Spectre! She would be a Spectre! It didn't feel real. It felt like a really weird, drawn out dream that just wouldn't end.

With a soft chuckle, she threw herself on the bunk she'd marked as hers by leaving her civvies there in a very unladylike pile; the coconut on the other one marked Nihlus' territory. She drew a deep breath: it had been a long day. A procession of new names and faces marched behind her closed eyes. Anderson she knew from before. He'd seen her in action, which was why he wanted her as his first officer. She also knew dr Chakwas; they had served together for a short while aboard the Beijing. The others... Moreau, Adams, Pressly, Alenko - all new.

Was that supposed to be exciting? She could no longer remember. It used to be, when she was younger. Stepping on a new ship for the first time used to bring about the butterflies. Not anymore. She focused on the sounds, the multi-layered noise of a running battle ship, and discovered she'd already learned to filter them out pretty effectively. Very few things could bring about the butterflies in Shepard nowadays. A worthy opponent. A clean kill. A good snatch.

That reminded her. She tumbled over to the other side of the cot and rumbled through her discarded clothes until she dug out the scarf, and then wrapped it around her neck. Julia had enough pretty frocks anyway, and she would only miss it in that she wouldn't be able to show it off in front of her new crew on the Kilimanjaro. Shepard, on the other hand, had plans for it. She smiled, absently sniffing the corner of the fabric. The scarf smelled of fine Armali incense that many asari shopkeepers liked to burn around their merchandise. Jo would love the scarf. It would look so perfect, under the heavy curls of her copper hair.

A glance at her omni: there was plenty of time before hitting the relay, and this was probably the last opportunity for loitering in a while to come, so she cleaned a portion of the cot and configured her omni to project the keyboard on the blanket. All right. Think happy thoughts, Shepard.

_Dear Jo,_

_I know it's only been a couple of days since my last message, but I just settled on the Normandy and I'm itching to tell you all about it. _

_It's not bad at all, considering what I expected from a hybrid human-turian design. It's so much smaller than the Trafalgar, though. I keep hitting things and stumbling across cables. Heh, you know me. But the people look decent so far. Had an informal chat with my marines and I think they like me._

She paused to consider the white lie. It was far too early to tell if she'd get along with the crew or not. The Normandy was new for everyone - which was helpful, but far from reassuring. Shepard had no illusions about her people skills: intimidating the shit out of them was the only one she excelled at. A useful trait in her line of work. Now if only she could turn it off while trying to make friends.

Happy thoughts, she reminded herself and continued typing.

_We'll see how it goes. Might turn out all the fuss was for nothing. See, it looks like I'll become a Spectre. (Don't ask me what it is; if you don't know, go look it up.) I'm already registered as a 'Spectre in training' in the Council database, but I don't really know what that means. I don't think there will be any real training. Probably just special assignments with my 'mentor' (don't know what that means either). But I'm not sure if I'll keep my commission here or... I don't know. So many questions! God, I hate being kept in the dark. I had _no idea_ that the Alliance has been putting my name forward as a potential candidate._

_But you'll never believe who gave the final recommendation. Remember that whole panic about reopening the Torfan investigation two years ago? Remember I told you I talked to a turian Spectre about it? Well it was _him_. And he is going to be my mentor. Can you imagine? I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw him. But he's turning out to be... totally okay. More than okay. I think I like him. :)_

A dusty memory of Jo's efforts to befriend the little turian girl who'd lived next door suddenly surfaced to make Shepard smile. No amount of cuts and bruises could persuade the seven-year-old Jo that she was too frail to play war games with a turian child of nine or ten, and Mom's desperation over washing off the war paint from her face thrice a week was a definite bonus to the fun of it. She had been devastated when the girl's parents found better employment elsewhere and moved.

Shepard was sure Jo would adore Nihlus. And for some reason, she thought that Nihlus would like Jo as well.

_There's a lot of stuff about him on the extranet. You can try to look him up too: type, 'Nihlus Kryik' (watch the spelling; I typed Kyrik the first time and got flooded by pop-ups). I bet you'll think he's hot. And... well, he is. Oh god, I can't believe I'm writing this. _

_Shit, here he comes! Will continue later... if I can... gotta run!_

_Love, Sis._

"Nice scarf," said Nihlus as the door closed behind him. Shepard looked up with an innocent face just in time to see him taking off his gloves and throwing them on his bed. He went to the water dispenser and drank directly from the tap.

"Original," Shepard said. "Hand-spun sun-silk, straight from Armali."

"A gift?"

"From the crew of the Trafalgar."

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, narrowing his eyes at her and damn, there it was. The lie-detector thing. How the hell could he tell?

"Well, okay," she added after what felt like a natural pause, blood rushing to her cheeks. "From a very specific crew-member of the Trafalgar." Which was, in fact, sort of true.

"I see," he smiled, then released her from the x-ray stare and sat heavily on the little bed. It gave out a sad creak. Nihlus bounced up and down, making it creak some more. "I can tell this was made by humans."

"Maybe they didn't think people would lie down in full armor."

"Well, they were wrong." He folded his legs under him and nestled with his back in the corner. Shepard watched him maneuver, more than a little curios: for such a large man, wearing such a heavy hard-suit, he seemed very flexible, and somehow he managed not to catch a single edge with his long crest-blades. But when he finally settled, she had to chuckle at how uncomfortable and restricted he looked and he sighed in response.

"How was the first day?" he said.

"Good, I think." Shepard measured the words that came to her mind next for a couple of seconds before deciding to deliver them. "I'm yet to hear a single 'Butcher of Torfan' whispered behind my back. That's something, right?" She offered a strained smile, but this time, he didn't smile back.

"From what I could see, the men like you well enough," he said after a pause, then made another one before continuing. "No way to tell, really, before you take them out."

"Can't be worse from how they received me on the Trafalgar. That was one damn rocky start."

"But it ended well, didn't it?" And he gestured at the scarf, making her blush again for reasons that had nothing to do with his optimistic assumptions. If only he knew. In the three years of her service there, she had not a single conversation that could stand up to the friendliness of these relaxed exchanges with Nihlus, a complete stranger. He appeared to be one of those people whose charm you could simply not resist. Not that she'd known many such individuals. In truth, she'd known only one. Major Kyle had been like that, before he went crazy.

Don't go there, Shepard. Happy thoughts, remember? She stretched her lips into another fake smile.

"Almost forgot," Nihlus said after a while. "The crew is gathering for dinner or drinks, I don't know. I'm dead, but you should go."

Shepard rolled her eyes. "That an order?"

"Told you already. As long as you're on Anderson's ship, you..."

"... take his orders. I know. It was a joke." She didn't feel like going any more than he did, but she knew she had to and now she picked herself up with a sigh. "All right."

"Wake me -"

A beep from his omni interrupted him and he opened the incoming message. Shepard was about to stand up, but then she froze as some profound emotion ghosted over his face, brightening up his eyes as if someone had turned on a light-bulb behind his carapace. For a second he looked... happy, as far as Shepard could tell. And then, no longer. He frowned and moved as if to start typing a reply, then gave her a glance, telling her in no uncertain terms that she was supposed to run along now.

But she hazarded a lopsided smile anyway. "Girlfriend?"

"Tell the crew I said hi," he replied. "Bye bye, Shepard."


	5. Deflection

#

* * *

><p><strong>Deflection<strong>

_Six hours before__ the attack on __Eden Prime._

Saren checked the clock. ETA to Eden Prime, six hours. For the umpteenth time, he inspected the wide pillar of holos with various system updates, projected in the middle of the large, irregular room that they kept calling "the bridge". It was barely anything more than a glorified information center. A convenient place to store their communication and monitoring gear. Sovereign didn't need a pilot to navigate it, or a crew to maintain it. It tolerated the presence of organics inside its vast mechanical body only because other arrangements had proven to be impractical.

His gaze traced the graceful curves of the chamber from side to side. For a purely synthetic life-form, Sovereign was remarkably devoid of straight lines and regular angles. Just like its exterior was shaped after some long forgotten organic progenitor, its interiors resembled organs and blood vessels more than rooms or hallways. The sections designated for their usage were sealed off from the rest by fibrous membranes shaped into perfectly spherical domes, presumably by the soft vacuum behind; they appeared brittle, but despite Saren's foolhardy experiments, he'd never managed as much as to chip them. Sometimes Sovereign would change the configuration of what they called "the habitable zone" by eating away the old membranes and growing new ones elsewhere. It was a disturbing phenomenon, and after each occurrence, Saren would spend hours redesigning his defense strategies. Not that he feared an attack. But being prepared for everything was what had brought him this far. It would not do to grow lax now, just before the climax.

At the far end of the room, Benezia was sitting in the large "pilot" chair, dressed in a set of light fatigues, with her eyes closed and legs folded beneath her. Unstrapped. Saren clenched his jaw. How could someone who'd lived for centuries be so careless and stubborn? He pushed back the wave of anger and stilled, observing the pattern of her breathing. Meditating, he concluded at last. It might serve him well to do the same, for his heart was drumming heavier than usual. The beats were so loud, in fact, that he could hear them clearly over the buzzing of their equipment and the underlying humming of Sovereign's engines.

It was a dissonant mixture. Sovereign despised their technology. And it had every right to: compared to its own elegant complexity, the devices they had brought in were clumsy and primitive. Saren could not blame it for allowing only the minimal, most necessary interfaces. It had given them access to its detector array, for it had not a single viewport. They were also permitted to translate and display its top-level system messages, and read out the status streams from some parts of its body. There was one stream in particular that Saren liked to watch: the output from the power core. Normally it updated at regular intervals, approximately the length of the traditional turian second, but it would accelerate during special operations, such as atmospheric entry or firing the MHD cannons, and decelerate while idling. Sovereign's pulse. Saren was so used to its regular rhythm that he could sense it even when he closed his eyes: like a small mechanical clock, quietly ticking in the back of his skull.

Unlike his own, it was currently beating at its optimal rate. Undisturbed by petty mortal doubts and fears.

Saren turned to his terminal. The empty chat window was staring at him. He reached for it, got half way there, then the weight bore down on his hands. No. No more hiding.

He had taught Nihlus well. Too well. And there he was now, chasing Saren down like a criminal, unaware of what he was after, or whom he would face in the end. He was better than Saren had expected, and the dark admission was mixed with a significant measure of pride. Nihlus was quicker, smarter, more decisive than ever. He had reached his full potential and he was shining with the brief constancy of the brightest young stars.

He was a worthy adversary and for that, even if there were no other reasons, he deserved better than this abominable game of hide and seek. He deserved to know the truth.

This was an old, tiresome, struggle. So far, the side that preferred to stretch things out as much as possible had always had the upper hand. But now a confrontation seemed inevitable. Of course the Council would send Nihlus to Eden Prime. Him and Anderson's whelp, Shepard. Saren folded his hands under his chin, musing. It would be most appropriate to see Shepard fail under Nihlus the way Anderson had failed under him.

But unlikely. Nihlus supported humans. He would see them join the Spectres, and then, the Council. He would see them rise to power and reap the benefits the other civilizations had had to fight for through centuries - in mere years. He would see them win a war of words without spilling so much as a drop of their precious red blood. Saren subdued a growl. All the more reason to end this masquerade and force Nihlus to choose his true allegiance once and for all.

Perhaps it could all be avoided, though. Again he reached, and this time his hands almost touched the haptic keyboard - but met insurmountable resistance there. Why was it, again, that he had never told Nihlus about Sovereign? At first it must have been an issue of trust and uncertainty. Later, of awkward explanations and questions Saren had never been ready to answer. How was he to speak of faith to the man he'd bound by commitment doomed to end in betrayal since the very beginning?

But it doesn't have to, whispered his clear-minded, rational self. Tell him now, tell him the truth. Show him your faith, the passion of your conviction. Open your veins for him like you have done for Benezia and he will follow, like she has.

I don't want him to follow, hissed the shadow, and moved his hands again, quickly now, before his other sees. "I'm on the Citadel. Meet me."

The message went into the ether and he leaned back, suddenly sweating. A little breathless, even. Why was it so difficult? It wasn't like he'd never lied to Nihlus before. He'd grown deplorably used to it, during the last few years. It always left a foul aftertaste. This time, however, the discomfort was almost physical. Like an itch, deep inside his body, spreading from nodule to nodule, and there, the sparks of over-excitement erupted all over him. What a miserable display of weakness. He leaned down and touched the floor to discharge, then glanced in Benezia's direction again, relieved to see her eyes were still closed. Yes. A good long meditation was definitely in order.

A smiling avatar popped up in the chat window to mock his anxiety. "Awww, fuck," it said. "I can't. On a mission, far, far away."

There was a stab of anger at the disrespectful tone. Replying was easier. "Make it wait. It might be a long time before we can speak again."

Exaggeration didn't sit well with him. But there was truth in that last statement, a still harsher truth: he might _never_ see Nihlus again. Was that preferable to facing him as an enemy?

Facing him as an enemy. Saren frowned, repeating the phrase like a litany in an effort to absorb the reality behind it. If I meet Nihlus on Eden Prime, he will be my enemy.

_Our enemy._

Yes. Our enemy.

There was a hole in the center of Saren's being that used to open up in face of such gloomy thought experiments, but nothing happened now. He had been preparing for this for far too long, and there was no room left for doubts, no empty places in which fear could settle in.

"Shit. I want to. You know that, right? But I can't."

Saren sighed. Let him come, then. He would _see_ the truth and there would be no need to explain in cumbersome words. The resolution was supposed to calm him down, for he had tried, and it was out of his hands now. But instead, everything was turning the wrong way, somehow. Like the entire world stood at an odd angle relative to what he remembered from before. He struggled to make sense of this sudden, dreamlike feeling of wrongness, and more sweating ensued. Was he being... nervous? Because of what was to happen? Because of what was at stake? Was he... making mistakes? Before, his mind was a clean, orderly place, a pleasant abode uncluttered with irrelevant decorations, well organized so that he always knew where to look for answers. Now...

"Saren? Still there?"

Sovereign hummed around him in reassuring notes and Saren slowly relaxed. The shadow departed, leaving him in peace. But soon he grew wary: wherever he looked in the spaces of his thoughts, mirrors awaited. His reflections were faithful, but the worlds behind them were nothing like reality. One showed the green disk of a planet very much like Palaven (only it wasn't, it couldn't be, that was the deal), and diving into her misty atmosphere were giant ships very much like Sovereign (only they weren't, they couldn't be, _that was the deal_) in thousands upon thousands and there was no hope for his people.

He jumped. He'd drowsed off, something he'd never been prone to before making a residence on Sovereign. Something about its humming. It was soothing. Too soothing.

On the far end of the bridge, Benezia was sitting in the same position, but her eyes were open now. Saren inclined his head, in part to show that he'd noted her presence, in part to test if she was aware of his. It didn't look like it.

A glance at the chat window. Nihlus had gone offline.

ETA: five hours.


	6. Eden Prime

#

* * *

><p><strong>Eden Prime<strong>

Nihlus listened to Anderson's speech with half an ear as the Normandy dived into the dawn on Eden Prime. He checked his suit, counting the seals under his fingers before he finally put the gloves on and sealed them as well. He took off the sniper rifle, extended the barrel, reassembled, put it back. Then the assault rifle, and finally his sidearm. His hands went through the motions. His mind was somewhere else.

He had a bad, bad, feeling about this mission. It had been growing in the back rooms of his mind like an unchecked infestation for quite some time now and once he opened the doors to acknowledge its presence, he was overwhelmed by its scale. By its malignancy. Too many things had happened just at the right time. Too many people he knew suddenly found themselves involved in this. Too many coincidences. And as Saren liked to say, coincidence is a coward's word for conspiracy.

First there was that strange conversation he'd had with Councilor Sparatus. They only spoke when absolutely necessary. The other two, they respected Nihlus' ability, his dedication. But Sparatus was a son of the Hierarchy from crest to toe and he couldn't bear having a Spectre with his own colors crawl out from under some Spirit-forsaken pirate-infested rock. Oh yes. Even after a decade of exemplary service, there were still people, both turian and alien, who assumed that Nihlus had risen through the tiers as quickly as he did because he was Sparatus' relative. The perceived kinship was an insult to them both, but unlike Sparatus, Nihlus had never been one to take that kind of thing too seriously. He never made light of it either - in part out of his sense of duty, but mostly out of consideration for Saren, who counted Sparatus among his very few friends. So when Sparatus declared that he had words to share, Nihlus received them with due attention.

The words had been, "If you know what's good for you, you'll distance yourself from humans."

A day later, Nihlus had received orders to pick Shepard up from Earth and begin her evaluation for the Spectres. In theory, he could have refused. It wasn't the usual order of things, but he had enough experience under his belt to pull it off. Of course he remembered the advice; only in the meantime, he'd started suspecting it was actually a thinly disguised threat. And Nihlus didn't like being threatened. Threats triggered his spite. He'd never sent a more enthusiastic 'mission statement processed' reply in his entire career.

Then there was that odd warning issued by the C-Sec. It had been addressed to the Alliance HQ on the Citadel, and if Nihlus hadn't been subscribed to their top-level message queue - by the grace of the former ambassador, Anita Goyle - it would have gone unnoticed. But Nihlus knew the name behind it. Garrus Vakarian. To say that Nihlus knew the man behind the name as well would be a bit far fetched, but unless Garrus had developed some severe psychological issues during the years since his nearly successful attempt to become a Spectre, he wasn't the type to make things up. The warning had been worded in such a non-committal way that it left more room for interpretation than a fortune cookie. Still, the very fact that it contained the keyword "Eden Prime" _just_ as Nihlus had been setting out was more than enough to make him pay attention.

Next came Saren's... demand for a meeting. Calling it an invitation just didn't seem to cut it. Nihlus could count on his fingers the occasions when Saren used such strong words, such a dramatic tone in any form of communication, and they had been friends for more than ten years now. But it was more than the tone. Asking Nihlus to make his mission 'wait' was far out of character. It made him turn in his squeaky bed during the whole flight, fighting the anxiety and dark premonitions. What if Saren was in trouble? What if he needed help and couldn't bring himself to ask for it directly? Now _that_, that would be very much _in_ character. Spirits. If it had been any other mission, _anything_ other than a functional Prothean beacon, Nihlus would have done it. He would have made it wait. But this was too damn important.

And apparently he wasn't the only one to think so. The image of the bizarre vessel that had attacked Eden Prime less than an hour prior to their arrival flashed before his eyes, making him shiver in the howling draft as the drawbridge of the cargo bay lowered. How about _that_ coincidence, eh? It was almost as if... as if whoever was behind the attack, and presumably, behind the other raids as well, had access to Nihlus' intel. The discovery on Eden Prime _had_ been kept classified. As much as was _humanly_ possible.

Ha. In any other circumstance, he'd have smirked at how Saren-like that sounded in his head. But now he had another idea, one that smothered his humor with cruel efficiency. Suppose the enemy did have access to his intel. Then they also knew about the Normandy. About her stealth systems, and more than likely, about her presence, right here, right now. He shuddered again.

"Nihlus, you're coming with us?" someone said, interrupting his train of thoughts. He turned to the young human. Jenkins, if he recalled correctly. Behind him, Shepard rolled her eyes. All the patience of an enraged thresher maw; her own words, and Nihlus smiled at the memory. She hadn't slept during the flight either. Nervous about commanding a new unit, she'd said. He could relate, though his concerns were of a far more frightening nature.

Frightening? He supposed it was, all of this. A forgotten feeling, creeping under his crest like a pair of cold, dead fingers. He was afraid. And with this realization, the threads suddenly coalesced and the 'bad feeling' took definite shape, screaming at him in the violent wind raving from the open door. S_tay the fuck away, Kryik_.

Shit. Too late for that.

"I move faster on my own," Nihlus replied to the young soldier. He gave Anderson a firm nod, then ran down the drawbridge.

#

About fifteen minutes later, he crouched behind a large rock, trying to get his breathing under control. The air was dark and heavy with smoke and smoldering ashes, whirling in the breeze like black snow. His heart pounded, his eyes stung and his throat burned. And so did the low, tumultuous clouds, painted red by the fires and the carnage below. There was a foul humming carried by the wind. Nihlus couldn't tell where it was coming from, and but for the disconcerting way it was resonating with his vocal cavity, he'd have ascribed it to the foreboding that hadn't left him for a second, not even during the gunfight.

A glance at the heat indicator on the barrel of his assault rifle: in the red. He couldn't remember when he'd last been so rattled as to keep shooting until his weapon overheated, but the occasion was deserving enough.

The geth. The geth had attacked Eden Prime.

It should have been a mind-numbing realization, but it wasn't. For one, "the geth" had been the other alarming keyword in the warning from Garrus Vakarian. But even without it, there had been rumors, hints and whispers of geth activity, scattered over the span of two years and a handful of systems outside the borders of Citadel Space, all properly investigated to reveal nothing substantial. And the attitude of the Council hadn't been helpful. After all, "nobody has seen the geth on this side of the Veil for two hundred years."

Oh yeah? Well now I have.

The geth were real, they were there, and by the looks of it, they had destroyed the settlement surrounding the dig site with the same meticulous thoroughness that had been the hallmark of all the previous raids. Spirits! What if it had been them from the start? Their presence here could not have been a coincidence. Oh no, there had been too much of that already. They had come for the beacon, there was no way around it. But what possible reason would the geth have to collect Prothean artifacts?

Nihlus used to have many theories about the raids, all gone up in smoke now. A multi-trillionaire with a good taste and both the mindset and the resources to appropriate the entire Prothean black market, such as Donovan Hock or Solem Del'Serah. A religious organization lead by fanatics and funded by political factions, such as the Order of Word and Light or recently, the Valluvian Knights. And of course, Cerberus was the stock suspect in all things murky and expensive. But the geth were certainly not in it for credits or enlightenment. So what then? Technology?

Lesson number seven, Kryik, Saren's voice echoed from deep within the well of memory, driving shivers under his plates. Always assume the worst and learn to enjoy disappointment. Nihlus nodded. Yeah. Mass relay technology. With ships like that surreal monstrosity and the ability to build their own relays...

Whatever their reasons, they had to be stopped.

His combat scanner was jammed, but he could hear the geth doing something, dead ahead. He propped up to look over his cover and faced a phantasmagoric scene. Several prefabs in various degrees of ruin stood in the wide clearing, well lit by fires. A dozen or so human bodies were strewn about in an almost casual fashion, and the ground beneath them was black with blood. And then there was the pair of geth... caressing a dying human in their arms, and communicating in a language he imagined an engine would use to talk to an antenna, clicking and clacking and popping and sparking. What the fuck were they doing?

Nihlus was all but ready to open fire when a sharp, metallic sound pierced his ears, reverberating off the sides of the ravine. The human body - dead now, or so he hoped - became impaled on top of a tall spike that shot out of the ground. Nihlus winced, stepped on a loose rock, and the geth heard him. Shit. Shit shit shit.

The exchange of fire was brief but intense and by the time it was over, his rifle was blinking warnings at him again. Shit, he concluded, then tapped his ear-piece. "I've got some burned out buildings here, Shepard. A lot of bodies. I'm gonna check it out. I'll try to catch up with you at the dig site."

The reply came with a delay, and was barely distinguishable over the sounds of a hail of fire. "Don't count on us! We lost Jenkins and we're pinned! Fuck, Nihlus! What the hell is going on?"

Damn. Nihlus shook his head as the fresh memory of a young human face and its enthusiastic smile lit up briefly in his mind's eye. "I don't know," he said, and it was the naked truth. "I have to find the beacon. You're on your own."

"Yeah! Figured!"

He switched off the radio and ran for the next convenient cover, the soft, moist ground absorbing the sound of his footsteps. Despite the urgency, he was drawn to the spiked human by morbid curiosity. The body was hanging a meter or so above his head and something was eating it from within. Its pale flesh had become translucent and there were tubes and wires under the skin, interwoven with dried-out tissue. Tiny blue lights pulsed inside the neck and armpits in winding lines and clusters. What in the world...?

As Nihlus stared, transfixed, the cadaver suddenly jerked. He jumped away, aiming his rifle at the thing. It wasn't alive, it couldn't be alive! The ground under the spike was a grisly shade of maroon; not even a krogan could have survived being shot, speared and bled like that. But it did move. It turned to look at him with gooey, discolored eyes, shining a luminous blue as if from some deeply nested implants. Then the spike collapsed into itself with a faint buzz and the creature rolled over, uttering a deathly groan. It raised itself on all fours and started crawling towards him, dead hands and dead knees leaving deep imprints in the bloody mud with a sordid sloshing sound.

"Stay back," Nihlus warned, stepping backward, and the undertones of his own voice terrified him even further, for they were filled with panic and a disgust so primal it bordered on superstitious. This thing, this _husk_ that was once human, offended all his senses, insulted his deepest instincts. It was dead, and it wasn't supposed to be moving. It wasn't supposed to be looking at him, with those empty, mindless, eyes. And it certainly wasn't supposed to jump at him!

The creature leaped forward with frightening agility. Nihlus shot it without thinking. He shot it and kept shooting until it slouched on the ground in a pool of fluorescent green liquid that had nothing, _nothing_, in common with the crimson of human blood.

"Fucking hell," he muttered, a bit breathless with fear. He kept his gun trained on the corpse. Nothing he'd ever heard about the geth covered this particular brand of insane. He kicked the thing, half expecting to see it rise again like a "zombie" out of human horror vids from pre-contact times. It didn't.

He tapped the comm again. "Shepard. Stay clear of the spikes. They're..."

"I know," said her voice, now calm and black with hate. "Someone's gonna pay for this, I swear."

"Yeah," he breathed. No mistake about that. "Yeah. What's your situation?"

"Checking the camp for survivors. I'll try to... Shit! Here we go again!"

The comm went dead. He heard single shots, followed by entire barrages somewhere ahead. Human weapons, geth weapons. At least Shepard wasn't fighting the fucking undead. He shuddered, then hurried up a narrow, beaten path.

As he reached the top, a new wave of smoke and ashes swept over him, blinding and choking him. He fell flat behind a low wall, coughed and blinked, then stilled, feeling the sickening vibration through the ground before it became audible, making him look up. Nothing he'd ever heard about the geth covered their apparent ability to build city-sized ships either. The grotesque vessel was climbing through the atmosphere on fat pillars of fire and smoke, and reddish power discharges blazing between its insect-like legs illuminated the low-hanging sky like lightning. Nihlus had never seen a ship so big enter the atmosphere, much less leave it. He watched its ascent, unable to tear his eyes away, until the dark clouds hid it and the red flashes were all that remained. The strange, omnipresent humming disappeared with it. Nihlus had already grown used to it, and he only remembered it on account of its sudden absence.

He shook off the fascination. Get a grip, Kryik. The sounds of gunfighting had died in the distance. And down below, there was a cargo platform on fire. A long, narrow AS-A7 freighter that had been parked along was nearly cut in half by some heavy weapon, and black smoke was roiling from the hole, carrying a sharp scent reminiscent of labs and chemistry, burnt rubber and molten plastics. No sign of the geth.

His ear-piece cackled. "Nihlus? We're at the dig site, and the artifact is missing."

Nihlus cursed. If the geth had taken the beacon, it was probably out of their reach by now, loaded on that giant ship. The Normandy wouldn't stand a chance against the behemoth - even if they had a way to track it in FTL. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!

"Um... that didn't translate but I think I get your point," Shepard said. "But wait... Got a member of the security detail here and she says that maybe it was moved by the research team to facilitate extraction."

"Change of plan, Shepard," he replied, glancing at the platform with newfound hope. "There's a small spaceport up ahead. I wanna check it out. I'll wait for you there."

#

Nihlus sprinted a short way, then bolted behind a large, sturdy crate when he spied motion on the platform. He peeked around the corner and gasped. It couldn't be. It was his mind playing tricks on him. He blinked, once, twice, swallowed, then span out of cover and aimed his rifle at what he felt sure had to be an illusion. For there on the cargo platform, stood none other but Saren, pacing with his back to Nihlus as if he hadn't heard him approaching - or perhaps pretending that he didn't care. As Nihlus stepped closer, slowly lowering his weapon, Saren kicked a pile of burning rubble and a gust of wind picked up the embers like autumn leaves.

"Saren?"

Saren turned, and Nihlus put his rifle all the way down, clenching it tight to hide the quiver that ran through his entire body. The bad feeling, the bad feeling was upon him like a physical presence, whispering strange heresies on the morning breeze.

"Nihlus," Saren said.

The dark voice resonated with something deep inside him in a way that could not be replicated by any dream or hallucination and if there had been any lingering doubts, this one word was more than enough to blow them away. Nihlus holstered his weapon and sighed with relief.

"This isn't your mission, Saren. What are you doing here?"

Saren covered the distance between them in three deliberate steps and laid his right hand on Nihlus' right shoulder even though it would have been more natural to use his left. It was a dance Nihlus knew all too well. No matter how many times he assured Saren that he had no issues whatsoever with his prosthetics, apparently _Saren_ had, even in a situation such as this. In fact, it seemed that Saren had more issues with it than the last time they'd met: he used to carry two pistols, and now he only wore the one for the right hand. Maybe the prosthetic arm wasn't fully functional. Maybe it hurt. It wasn't something Saren would ever complain about.

"The Council thought you could use some help with this one," he said in a strange tone, looking at Nihlus in a strange way. He was tired, that much Nihlus could gather effortlessly from his silver features. Tired, and tense, and... lying? There was a nervous edge in the way his grip tightened on Nihlus' shoulder before he let go and resumed his pacing.

What he said made perfect sense, though. Saren had been on the Citadel at the time the distress call was sent from Eden Prime. Yes. It was possible. The matter was certainly serious enough for the Council to deploy their top two agents. But Saren had all but retired from active duty; perhaps that was the lie? Perhaps he'd come on his own accord? That was possible as well. Saren had always been disturbingly well informed about the doings of other Spectres. Well, at least about the doings of this one Spectre.

Not that it mattered. His presence would make the fighting a lot easier, but it didn't lessen the gravity of the circumstances. Nihlus glanced about, half expecting some new unpleasant surprise - as if it hadn't been enough of that already.

"I wasn't expecting to find the geth here," he said, turning to see if he could catch a glimpse of Shepard. The dig site was just down that hill and she was to arrive any moment now. "The situation is bad."

"Don't worry," Saren replied. "I've got it under control."

Nihlus smiled; these were exactly the words he wanted to hear. The bad feeling dissipated into nothingness just like the cloud cover that was now giving way to a clear, serene dawn. For the first time in ages, he actually felt calm and safe, despite the undeniable, acute danger inherent to _any_ combat situation, let alone one so unpredictable. No matter how many years passed or how many decorations the Council chose to pin to his chest, Saren was still his senior, his teacher, his superior, and if he said everything would be all right, than by the Spirits, everything would be all right. Nihlus turned, perhaps even to say something to the effect, and froze.

Saren was aiming a gun square at his head. He opened his mouth to ask what the fuck, but he wasn't quick enough. The gun blazed, deafened him. A hot streak on his cheek. Pain and confusion. What the fuck? Nihlus stared in the eyes he knew better than his own, looking for an explanation, and found nothing but raw horror staring back at him. But Nihlus wasn't angry. He wanted to say so. To comfort the man who had just shot him. He was just...

Grazed. He lifted a hand to his face and felt the burn. It hurt like a bitch but it was no more than a scratch. Nihlus turned again, following the direction of the barrel, and saw a geth collapse and roll behind a cliff overlooking the path to the dig site.

"Uh..." Nihlus muttered, stupefied.

"You're welcome," Saren said somewhere behind his back but there was no time to talk about it, for suddenly there were rounds flying everywhere and he had to take cover, behind the same crate he'd used before. He returned fire, and heard Saren's pistol drumming its deadly beat. The enemies were coming in increasing numbers, taking advantageous, elevated positions, and he was just about to comment on being as ridiculously outnumbered as ever when the characteristic barrage of Hahne-Kedar assault rifles echoed from up ahead.

Shepard had finally made it, and now they had the geth caught in crossfire between them. The machines had good cover; but they had biotics. Nihlus could trace the wave of dark energy as it rippled from Shepard's position, finally collapsing the rock around the enemy in a cloud of dust with a deep, satisfying rumble. So the Normandy's designated biotic, Alenko, was someone to be reckoned with. Nihlus turned to say so to Saren, hoping that the compliment might mitigate his distaste for working alongside humans. But the words died out before leaving his lips.

There was no one on the platform but him and the body of a human dock worker, a bullet hole right between his eyes. He couldn't remember seeing it before, but he _had_ been a bit distracted.

He looked around and called out. Waited. No reply.


	7. Failure

#

* * *

><p><strong>Failure<strong>

The diversion had been a success. However, the _point_ of the diversion had certainly not been to provide him with a convenient excuse, and Saren was far from satisfied. His weakness for Nihlus was turning into a serious problem, a problem that could no longer be kept secret from Sovereign. And indeed, just as he thought that, an unnatural feeling of heat soared from his spine, spreading over his entire body through the neural highways of his biotics, lighting up nodule after nodule, and when it reached his groin it felt like he'd wet his undersuit. A desperate attempt of his mind to interpret the alien input. The discomfort was intense, bordering on pain, but not bad enough to be disabling. There was no time for that now. It was just a warning. A reminder that Sovereign was far from satisfied as well.

He rushed down the metal stairs, going from platform to platform, until he reached the railway. His geth were waiting. Saren had learned to appreciate the deadly efficiency of the machines a long time ago, but after every mission with them, his admiration became deeper, his envy stronger: they had no weaknesses; no feelings to get in the way of what had to be done. They had already detached an engine from the wagons and hacked into the control systems. He had only to step on, and they sped forwards.

A glance at the tactical map on his omni told him the charges had been set. Severing the spaceport from the dig site would delay Nihlus and the humans long enough for Saren to finish his work here. He approved the countdown. As the engine rushed ahead, the distant sounds of battle drowned in the hum of the accelerators and the wailing of the wind.

The ride to the spaceport, where the beacon was waiting to be towed into a drop-ship, took exactly three and a half minutes, but they dragged on like one of his dreams of flying at relativistic speeds. It would cost him, this weakness. It would make everything more difficult, more dangerous, more painful. It was idiotic, allowing Nihlus to go. Not only irrational and emotional, which was disgusting enough; it was _stupid_. The confrontation could no longer be delayed, and Spirits knew he'd done everything he dared to delay it as much as possible. The lies he had to tell, the petty deceits he had to weave had already sullied the relationship and he knew that Nihlus could feel it but damn, he would not give it up. He held on to it like it was the most important...

Saren heard himself growling and bade this line of thinking cease and desist immediately. His left hand was hurting, and when he looked down, he saw that he'd clawed holes in the synthetic meat of his palm. Blood was dripping, and under it, tiny lights pulsed between the torn muscles in time with his heartbeat. But the bleeding stopped after mere seconds, and a perfectly localized swelling closed the wounds while he was watching. Nothing would be left of the injury in an hour; nothing but a memory.

If only his entire body could be like that. Practical and efficient. If only his mind could be cleaned of all doubts and fears and of these unbearable feelings that made him slow and heavy. That had made him fail. Oh, to be a purely synthetic life form!

_Is that what you want?_

The train was slowing down, and the pink light of the dawning sun gleamed at him between the towering buildings of the distant colony, making his mechanical pupils contract with a minuscule buzzing sound that he could only catch because his mechanical ears gave him superior hearing. They had reached the pick-up point. He directed the geth to watch the only entrance to the platform, and checked the map on the way towards the beacon. Damn. Nihlus had already disabled three of the five charges.

Saren turned the omni off with an angry snarl and picked up his pace. The beacon was waiting. Shaped as a miniature replica of the Citadel Tower, it was staring back at him accusingly. He'd made many sacrifices, following his strange, ironic destiny, and some had been a great deal more significant than his allegiance to the Council. But the betrayal stung despite all the rationalizations perfected during the years spent abusing his status in the service of Sovereign. It would only stop burning the day his heart became replaced with a prosthesis, too.

_That can be arranged._

This beacon appeared to be in worse condition than the instance he had salvaged from Weya. That would likely affect the experience, and _not_ in the way of increasing comfort. He didn't want to go through that again, but there was no other way. The beacons did not speak to synthetics. There were still some things Sovereign could not do without his organic agent regardless of all its knowledge and technology and firepower. Which was why it was unacceptable to disappoint it. Still, there was a moment of hesitation. Saren knew all too well what to expect: horror and pain on a level so deep that not even Sovereign could tap into it, though the beacons operated in much the same way, plugging their desperate, futile message directly into the nervous system, letting the brainstem do their dirty work, calling forth the demons.

But there was no time to ponder on the necessary course of action. Nihlus was drawing near, too near, and damn him, if he persisted, Saren _would_ kill him. He clenched his teeth, but before he could make the final step, the sounds of a gunfight drew his gaze. Impossible! He checked his omni: Nihlus was almost at the entrance. Saren's heart started hammering again in its ineffectual, organic way of dealing with unpleasant realizations. Was this it? Their final encounter? He turned around, looking for something, anything that could draw out the fight, but the platform was empty and he was alone and out of ideas. There was no time to activate the beacon and escape with its message. If they caught him in the middle of it... if they even saw him...

_It is not an option._

Understood. The geth dropship was hovering just off the platform, and Saren ran for it. The jump was over ten meters long but his enhanced body made short work of it, and there were strong mechanical arms on the drawbridge to pull him in. As the vehicle surged upwards, he thought he could see Nihlus' dark figure make a dramatic appearance with guns blazing and his trademark fancy moves. Knowing that he was probably seeing them for the last time made them as mesmerizing as they had been the first, and Saren lingered on the drawbridge until the ship ascended above the thinning clouds.


	8. Bad Dreams

Author's Note

If you haven't read _A Hidden Place_ by yours truly so far, now might be a good time to do it. A small but important detail in this chapter leans heavily on it.

* * *

><p><strong>Bad Dreams<strong>

Shepard was sitting on a hospital bed with her legs tucked under her, biting her thumbnail vigorously. On the other side of the med bay, Nihlus was lying unconscious. Technically, he wasn't sleeping, or so Dr Chakwas had said, but apparently that didn't mean he couldn't dream. His eyeballs were moving frenetically under his dark eyelids and every so often, his arms and legs would twitch as if he were trying to run. She could relate to that sort of dream. Someone had once told her that you dreamed of being chased and unable to move except in god damned slow motion when your legs got entangled in the sheets. Shepard had tried sleeping without sheets. Didn't help. Her shrink had laughed his ass off when she'd told him. Good man. God rest his soul.

"Tell me what happened again," Anderson said. He was standing next to her, also watching Nihlus struggle with his nightmares. Perhaps Nihlus could feel them looking, and was trying to hide? To be sick and helpless away from hostile, alien eyes? Someone had also told Shepard that there was no worse thing for a turian than to be helpless, at the mercy of others. That their old and terminally ill killed themselves three times more often than in any other space-faring culture.

"Yes, sir. He said he saw Saren. Saren Arterius. When he said, Saren, I said, Saren Arterius? And he said, yes. It's all in my report. How many times do I have to repeat it?"

"But you didn't see him."

"No, sir. By the time we got there, Nihlus was alone. A bit rattled, I suppose, but lucid. This was way before he activated the beacon."

"Did he say anything else about the encounter?"

"No, sir. There was no time. We detected large amounts of ordnance on the railroad and had to hurry to disable the charges."

Anderson huffed, frustrated. It was plain that she wasn't telling him what he wanted to hear, but that was his problem, not Shepard's.

"Lucid, you say," he muttered after a while.

"Perfectly lucid, sir." She blew a breath through her nose. "Hell. He was perfect, period. I've never seen anyone fight like that."

It was the truth. The way Nihlus moved, the speed at which he'd cover a completely unfamiliar piece of terrain, the accuracy of his shots, the confidence behind his orders - it was beyond anything Shepard had witnessed during her entire military career. But she was too nervous to sprout poetic descriptions, and when Anderson turned to look at her with eyebrows raised in polite suspicion, all she could do was shake her head and repeat, "Never, sir."

"His reputation is well earned, then," Anderson agreed, albeit reservedly. "But so is Saren's. He hates humans with a passion. After everything he's done to sour every step of our damned way, his presence on Eden Prime - and just as we were _this_ close to losing the colony - it can't be a coincidence."

Shepard eyed him with a frown. It sounded as if he cut the speech just as he was about to deliver the main point. Instead, he held his air, and bit his lip. Interesting.

"What are you aiming at?" she said.

Anderson gave her a significant look.

"You think he was working _with_ the geth?" Shepard snorted. "That's a bit far-fetched, sir." To say the least.

He didn't answer. They watched Nihlus in silence, and after a while, she got back to biting her nail. Prior to bunking with Nihlus, she'd never seen a turian sleep. Or ever lie down, for that matter. Well, a _living_ turian. She'd seen pictures and vids all right, but none of it conveyed the sense of natural grace emanating from Nihlus on all wavelengths. Even with the pointy crest, the awkward spurs and all the plates and scales, he looked so... comfortable. "Is it true that Saren was his mentor?" she said absently.

"So they say." Anderson sighed. "Listen, Shepard. Saren is a psychopath. Make no mistake about that. And the apple never falls far from the tree." He lowered his voice into a whisper. "I know you like Nihlus; hell, I like him too. But you'd be wise not to turn your back on him."

Shepard held his stare, wondering where this was coming from. He hadn't asked her half as many questions about finding the fucking geth on Eden Prime nor about that behemoth of a ship. She knew Anderson for a stable, reasonable man. This wasn't like him. "_You'd_ be wise to keep these accusations to yourself unless you can find something to back them up with," she said. "Sir."

"Something will come up sooner or later. Mark my words."

She looked away, unconvinced, and resumed biting the nail. Soon there would be nothing left of it and she'd have to wait for a day or two before she could vent her stress on the poor stubby thing again. She left the others alone, though. That way, the thumbnail could be the tormented hero, and the others, the rescued innocents.

Innocents. She closed her eyes over the memory of the impaled bodies. No longer human. Her stomach turned. That was what Anderson should have been questioning her about, damn it, not some misplaced turian.

"Why don't you go get some rest as well?"

"I'd rather stay here, sir."

Anderson nodded. "Suit yourself. Call me when he wakes up."

"Yes, sir."

She shuddered in the slight draft as the door opened and closed behind the Captain. On the other end of the med bay, Dr Chakwas was sitting in the lab, busy working at a terminal. Shepard deliberated for another couple of breaths, then hopped down and went over to Nihlus' bed to observe the rhythm of his breathing, the jugular pulsing in the strange, compound meter of his alien heartbeat. Her eyes traced the vivid pattern of white stripes on his chest, similar to his facial markings. They were hypnotic, waving in perfect symmetry away from the protruding, sharp-looking keel down to where the plates gave way to the dark skin of his waist; whirling on his shoulder-plates, flowing down his thigh-plates... converging on his pubic plates. Shepard bit her lower lip, craning her neck for better view.

She'd never touched a turian before. Oh, she'd shaken hands with some, punched others, and even snapped one's neck with her bare hands during a raid on an illegal arms shipment bound for Elysium. This was so very different, though. Her hand hovered above him almost against her will. There was a halo of warmth surrounding his body like a silky cobweb, readily felt from ten centimeters away. It was inviting, welcoming, and finally she gave in to it and laid her fingertips on his chest. The plate was warm under her touch, smooth and strangely _alive_. She wanted to touch his face. There was a faint burn mark on his left cheek that she hadn't noticed earlier and she should examine it. Yes.

He moved, and she pulled her hand back, curling it reflexively into a fist. "Water," he muttered, then smacked his tongue a couple of times, turned his back to her, and seemingly resumed his sleep. Shepard went to the other side of the bed and waved a hand in front of his face. Nothing.

"What is it, Shepard?" said Dr Chakwas, leaning backwards in her chair so she could see through the door. "Is he awake?"

Shepard shrugged, watched him a bit longer, and finally gave a decisive shake of the head. Chakwas returned to her work, and Shepard started back to her post on the bed.

But then her eye caught a tempting glint from Nihlus' armor, piled up unceremoniously in the corner. When they'd brought him in, limp and lifeless like a sack of omnigel, the first order of business had been to strip him and check if he'd been wounded. All of his possessions - other than the coconut - were there. He'd brought nothing with him that he couldn't fit into the pockets of his hard suit. Shepard glanced over her shoulder towards the lab again, then crouched next to the pile.

It felt wrong to go through his things while he was lying unconscious just a step away, but there was no harm in taking a look, was there? She was curious to see what kind of trinkets a turian Spectre would carry in his pockets - she'd put them right back and he wouldn't even know.

The right thigh pocket held nothing of interest: a block of ammo for an assault rifle (really, Nihlus? In case you run out?), something that looked like a heat sink, only smaller, and a pocket-knife. There was a pouch on the belt, filled with miscellanea such as pieces of wire, credit chits, tiny probes and tweezers and a petrified, half-eaten protein bar. In the left thigh pocket, there was a datapad and... bingo!

A jewelry case. Shepard smiled as she opened it. Coconut my ass. Of course Nihlus had a perfect grasp of what would make a woman happy - turian or otherwise. Even to someone as bad at reading alien social cues as Shepard was, he definitely seemed like somewhat of a ladies' man. The shiny thing in the case was a necklace pendant, shaped like a tear, intensely blue and... beautiful. She touched it. Ceramics, and not just any kind: it was the same stuff the hard-suits were made of. Huh. There were tiny letters on it, but she couldn't make out the writing; it could have been turian. It could have also been one of the ancient human scripts. Shepard couldn't tell, shameful as that was. She observed it for many seconds, and her heart fluttered like a nervous bird. It would look so perfect, against the ivory skin of Jo's neck.

But the sounds of labored breathing drew her attention and she hurriedly returned the case to the pocket, biting back the onset of panic. She stood up, flushed and wide-eyed, and found that Nihlus' back was heaving. He let out a quiet groan that sounded like fear or pain and his hand crumpled the sheets and pressed into the mattress. Shepard tiptoed around the bed. His eyes were open, but when they darted to track her movement, there was no sense in them, just blank, animal fright. Chakwas peeked out of the lab again and this time Shepard waved her to come over.

"Let's see..." Chakwas approached the bed with no trepidation, laid a confident hand on Nihlus's cheek, and shone a little flashlight in his eyes. He winced and slapped her hand away. "Good to have you back, Spectre," she said, moving back to a respectable distance.

"Where am I?" he said, but it was more of a growl: deep and daunting. As he pushed himself up on his arms, Shepard involuntarily slipped into a state of yellow alert, muscles going taut under her fatigues, for there was something extremely menacing about his posture and the wild shine from those green eyes. So much like her own, yet so profoundly different.

"This is the SSV Normandy, an Alliance vessel commanded by Captain Anderson," Chakwas recited, apparently unconcerned. She turned on the bedside scanner and nodded at his vitals. "You've been knocked unconscious after approaching an alien artifact. Physically, you're fine, but... what is the last thing you remember?"

Nihlus frowned and shook his head, then brought a hand up to his forehead. "The beacon," he said. "Spirits. It put shit in my head. I can't..." The words trailed off into quiet wheezing. "It hurts to think," he whispered at last, bringing himself up to sit. "When they told me it was a beacon I didn't think it would be a fucking _telepathic_ beacon... Shit. Head hurts. Hurts like a bitch!"

"Give him something for the pain," Shepard said. Chakwas gave her a don't-you-tell-me-what-to-do-in-my-med-bay kind of look, but turned to rummage through the medicine cabinet anyway.

"Shepard, right?" Nihlus said.

"Yeah." She paused. "And you?"

"Nihlus Kryik, Special Tactics and Reconnaissance."

"This should help," Chakwas said, and delivered a quick shot into the side of Nihlus' neck. "Lt. Alenko says it works miracles with his migraines."

"That's the biotic, right?"

"Your memory seems fine. Take these, but only if you must, and no more than two a day." Chakwas gave him a small white bottle and Shepard could hear the comforting clacking of pills inside. "Also, light food and lots of fluids."

Nihlus grunted something, looked around, then took the large plastic tankard from the bedside table and drank from it directly. Shepard and Chakwas exchanged a glance: there was a glass right next to it.

"As far as I can tell, you're fit for duty," Chakwas said when he seemed to have sated his thirst. "But when we dock, I recommend you visit a turian physician. Just in case. I've worked with aliens before but it's not what I specialize in."

"I'll remember that." He pushed himself off the bed gingerly and flexed his neck and shoulders. "That thing really works miracles. Hope the pills are as good."

"No more than two a day," she replied, wagging a finger at him in the universal gesture of mothering. To Shepard's amusement, he stuck out his tongue at her by way of an answer. Chakwas waved her head with an exasperated sigh before retreating back to the lab. "Soldiers, ha!" she muttered. "Children, all of you."

Shepard cleared her throat. "The Captain will want a word. You think you're up to it?"

"Hell, no." He glanced around, still looking rather groggy, then scrutinized his arms and legs and ran his hands down his chest, feeling for injuries. Then he put a hand on the left side of his face and frowned. "So I passed out?"

"Yeah. That thing... it held you up in some sort of a mass effect field, and you were shaking, like you were having a seizure. And then you fell down. Been unconscious ever since."

Finally he spotted the pile of armor, and stalked that way. "What happened after that? Did you meet Saren?"

"No."

Nihlus turned to look at her with something like distress on his face, freezing in mid-motion as he was trying to pull out his undersuit. Which had been on top of the pile, but ended up under the thigh guards thanks to Shepard's little search. She felt the heat spreading through her cheeks - but what he said had absolutely nothing to do with that.

"You didn't find any... turian bodies, did you?"

Shepard shook her head, relieved. Nihlus deflated visibly as well, for entirely different reasons.

He proceeded to dress, and Shepard watched him, vaguely displeased. If it were up to her, she'd order him to stay in bed for another day. He didn't look well, and his movements were drunken, shaky. Even so, he was quite efficient. Turian hard suits were a lot more complicated than human models - though maybe that was just the perception born of buckling up her own suit for so many years while never having been in the situation to help an alien into (or out of) theirs. Nihlus picked the gloves up last, but didn't put them on. He appeared to be counting the seals on the sides of his chest-plate. Then he stopped, as if he'd lost count, and did it again. Finally he took a deep breath, and looked at her. His eyes were dark and heavy.

"You owe me big time for pulling you away from that damned thing, Shepard," he said. "It was fucking horrible. Makes me sick to think about it." And as he put a hand over his mouth and a spasm went through his body, Shepard realized he was not exaggerating. She stepped towards him, but he dismissed her with a wave of a hand. "I'm fine," he said, with the tiniest of grateful smiles. "I don't remember much. But there are images... feelings. Terrible feelings. Like... something worse than torture, worse than death. Like... the death of _everything_. That makes no sense, does it? Unless..." Nihlus paused again, his breathing deep and raspy, and she thought she could see sweat on his face. He blinked at her under a frown of deep focus. "Spirits, Shepard. I think I saw the end of the Protheans. I think I saw the death of their entire species."

His voice trailed off and he seemed to be looking through her at something far, far away. To her surprise and alarm, turians could apparently go pale despite the thick hide. The skin on his neck lost a solid shade, turning ashen. She reached to tap his shoulder and snap him out of it, but he came to on his own.

"They didn't just disappear..." he said at last.


	9. Nine

#

* * *

><p><strong>Nine<strong>

Saren froze in mid-motion, listening. He was in his room - a small chamber near the bridge, divided from Sovereign's "main artery" by a thin, improvised door. Benezia was moving about on the bridge. Pacing to and fro. Then she stilled, and he resumed the inspection, manipulating the camera remotely from the workstation and observing the feed on the screen. Two mirrors would have done a much better job, but he had none. Asking Benezia to lend him hers would have invited too many questions. He didn't want her to see him like this. He didn't want her to know about his strange thoughts, strange suspicions. All he wanted was five minutes of peace to see what the hell was that thing on his back, but apparently it was too much to ask for. Always someone watching. Always someone listening.

Calm down. Deep breaths. Focus, damn it. You're better than this.

He started over, zooming the camera on the back of his head and guiding it down. Counting. The pair of amplifier slots tucked just behind his mandibles was now over three decades old; his first implants. They were fine. Another pair, at the very top of the cervical curve, grafted during the long year after Nihlus had been appointed. They were fine too. Then came the row of two pairs, on each side of the lumbar curve, starting just under the thoracic plates. He'd gotten them three years before. They seemed fine as well. Eight in total.

And then there was the ninth.

He zoomed. On the right side, under the lower four. It looked exactly like them. There was some bruising and swelling of the surrounding tissue, which was probably what woke him and made him scratch. Sometimes the implants got inflamed; nothing that would ordinarily cause concern.

The thing to cause concern - a lesser man would have called it panic - was that he had no memory of having an implant there. And worse than that, he couldn't remember if he was supposed to have eight or nine.

How the hell does one forget something like that?

How the hell could _he_, Saren Arterius, one of the most brilliant minds of the century, forget something like that? He, who remembered the voices of all the children in his prep-school. Dozens of individual frequencies and hundreds of harmonics! And not only theirs; if he wanted, he could recall the voices, clans and markings of their parents and the names of all their siblings. He, who could reproduce, in voice or writing, the entire score for the Chant of Unification - eleven soloists supported by an eleven-tiered choir, with a total duration of six to nine hours. He, who could recite the Thessian Agreement word for word, and if he really had nothing better to do - recite it backwards. So how in the Galaxy could he forget if he had eight or nine spinal implants?

Like a word at the tip of the tongue, the certainty eluded him. It could have been nine. It could have been eight.

He tried to whisper it, to make it real by voicing the words. "Nine."

It didn't sound right.

"Eight?"

That didn't sound right either.

His first thought had been to look at an old full-body scan. But he didn't have a single one at hand. He carried only the most necessary data with him. The rest was stored on Virmire, and he couldn't imagine asking Sovereign to make a detour just to provide him with peace of mind.

How the hell could he forget that? It was worse than forgetting your own name or birthday. It was like forgetting to breathe.

Alone in the dark, cold cell, Saren let out a voiceless laugh.

I'm going crazy.

Or worse; I'm being affected.

_Nonsense._

Yes. Nonsense. Of course he had nine implants. He'd always had nine implants.

Unless he'd had eight and one was new.

_You're being paranoid._

Yes. Paranoid. He shook his head clear and reached for his shirt. But then he had an idea. Perhaps he'd caught his own back on camera earlier? There was a small private collection he did carry around. To help pass the sleepless nights in FTL. Quickly, he fixed the gauntlet of his combat suit on his naked forearm and tapped his omni. And then his heart started beating wildly in his chest.

His files were gone. The collection was there - titled "Routine Surveillance Footage" so as to inspire as little curiosity as possible. But it was empty. Somebody had been touching his private files.

_Benezia._

Benezia! The anger he'd been suppressing spilled over and boiled through his veins, setting his chest on fire. His hands curled into vicious fists, and the echo of his deep snarling crawled along the glossy walls and the stone-like floor, feeding right back into him. A brief fantasy - of the gurgling sounds she'd likely make if he were to _strangle_ her - wrenched at his guts like desire and a shower of shivers went through his sweat-coated body.

And _that_ was the moment Benezia chose to pay him a visit. The directed motion of her footsteps gave him just enough time to curse and pull on his undershirt. He had barely turned the camera and the screen off when she entered. She didn't even knock. And when he didn't look at her immediately, trying to subdue the rage by squeezing the edge of the desk, she cleared her throat.

"What is it?" He stared up at her, caring little for how he sounded.

"A message for you. From Nihlus Kryik."

Her eyes lit up in the half light as she spoke. She shaped the words like they'd cut her tongue, and he hated her for it. Assumptions were all she had; assumptions and pieces of old conversations, old confessions. She didn't know; there was no way she could know for sure, yet she was jealous. Saren couldn't stand it. To make it worse, he was sure she _knew_ he couldn't stand it. She was doing it on purpose and that made him want to snap her elegant, fragile neck.

"You've read it," he challenged. She didn't deny it, and his talons curled harder against the smooth plastic of the desk. "Speak."

"The human colony was saved."

"And the beacon?"

"Nihlus has used it. It is no longer funct..."

Saren growled and struck the desk with his fists, then stepped forward and towered above her, breathing furiously into her face. She did not flinch and instead raised her chin in defiance. Come on, her stare said. Strike me if you dare. Let us see just how out of control you are.

To which he just wrinkled his nose.

"You do realize what this means?" she continued. "He must be eliminated."

"I will deal with Nihlus." He was clawing into his hand again, but now he was doing it on purpose, to keep himself from lashing at her. He used to be better than this. His nerves were at an end, and his real work was only just beginning. "Stay out of it," he concluded. "And stay away from my private things."

"What private things?"

"Don't play games with me. You've touched my omnitool."

"I have not."

She should have known better than to contradict him directly when he was in a mood like this. He took another step forward, crowding her, and she stepped back. There was no room behind her and now that he had her between the wall and his own body, flooded with destructive energy, Saren could finally smell the fear on her quickened breath. But there was no falsehood in it, nor in her huge, liquid eyes. Damn. She was telling the truth. Perhaps he'd deleted the files himself. If he could forget how many implants he had, who the hell knows what else he'd forgotten?

Another snarl, and she was gone. When did she walk out? Somehow he'd missed it. He was exhausted. His limbs hung limply and his neck was trembling under the weight of his head. He'd had no more than an hour of rest after Eden Prime.

At least that's what he'd thought. When he sat down heavily on his cot and tapped his omni again, he found ninety-three unread messages in the queue and stiffened all over again. What was the time? More importantly... what was the date?

An entire day had passed since the retreat from Eden Prime. Which meant he'd been sleeping for nine standard hours. That was... disturbing. He'd never slept that long. Not as a child, not in boot camp, not in the cabal, and certainly not as a Spectre.

Perhaps he had underestimated the exertions his mind and body had been submitted to of late. Perhaps he was getting old. Most Spectres didn't live to enter the third decade of service. Perhaps it was the humming, the ceaseless humming of Sovereign. But still, to sleep three times longer than normal -

_You deserved it._

Did I?

Saren waited for a few seconds, but the voice didn't reply. Good. He preferred to conduct his private correspondence without ghosts looking over his shoulder.

Not that he had anything to hide.

He went through the queue, distractedly eying the senders. Most messages were automated status updates from several ongoing operations. Some were asking for input, but those could wait. One of his agents on the Citadel, Fist, had made an unusual number of attempts to reach him. Saren flagged the stack to look into it later. The report from his agent on Therum was probably more urgent than the message from Nihlus, yet he could wait no longer.

There was a report attached to the message, and it was the first thing Saren looked at; but by the end of the second sentence, he knew it wasn't written by Nihlus, who had likely been incapacitated after activating the beacon. Anderson's pup, Shepard, had probably had to do it. Barely literate. Saren snorted at the awkward formulations, then gritted his teeth in anger because the last thing he was supposed to be doing was fantasizing about how Nihlus would have written it. A style minimal yet vivid, light and irresistible like a spider's web. Like Nihlus himself.

He shoved the sentimentality away and scrolled down to the important bits. Of course Nihlus had reported seeing him. The encounter was described in far more detail than it deserved, but there were no inaccuracies or fabrications. What interested him the most, however, was what happened after he had left.

"Commander Shepard approached the artifact from the south and felt strong headache in its vicinity but stepped closer in order to investigate."

Idiot. Even humans should have protocols about inspecting alien technology.

"The artifact applied a mass effect field that started dragging Commander Shepard in. Agent Kryik came to the rescue and removed Commander Shepard from the influence of the mass effect field, but in doing so, became trapped in the field himself."

Nihlus, Nihlus. Always playing the hero. You'd have done it even if you'd known it would rob you of your sanity. How valiant. How foolish.

"The field lifted Agent Kryik in the air and out of reach of the unit. While being suspended, Agent Kryik appeared to be having seizures, and that lasted for approximately five seconds. After that, the artifact deactivated the mass effect field and Agent Kryik dropped on the ground. There were no obvious injuries, but he was unconscious. The artifact remained inactive despite the unit's attempts to activate it, and it was loaded onto the SSV Normandy in the said state."

Saren shut his eyes and allowed the disturbing imagery from the beacon to flood his mind. All his attempts to make sense of it had been in vain, and as he tried to imagine Nihlus going through the shock of receiving it for the first time with no idea what it represented or how to handle it, his throat shrunk and he had to swallow hard. Another secret they had in common. Another aspect of his existence that nobody but Nihlus would ever know about, let alone understand.

Nihlus would know. If there had been eight or nine.

_Nine._

Yes. There must have been nine. Implantation isn't the kind of procedure that can be done in several hours. At least, no _mortal_ could do it. Feeling his heart-rate spike again, Saren quickly diverted the hopeless train of thought by finally opening the message.

"I'm okay. Are you okay? Where the hell did you run off to? I looked for you. I nearly died of worry. Now they tell me there were no turian bodies, so.

Look, Saren. I have a rotten feeling that these people will try to pin this mess on you somehow. Tevos tells me they even arranged for a hearing with the Council, but I guess you know about it already. They've got nothing other than a bullet hole in some dock-worker's head: supposedly not from geth weapons. Geth! Can you believe it? And that beacon... Spirits, we need to talk. Why are you never online when I need you?

Anyway, I told them the bullet was probably mine. Friendly fire. Because it probably was. Right?

PS

I'll be at the hearing. Just so you know. :)"

Saren frowned at the smiling avatar, bobbing up and down and moving its mandibles in a parody of seduction. Nihlus, Nihlus. What do I do with you now?

He didn't need the voice to answer that question. He bit into his tongue until he tasted blood, then tapped the reply button.

_The world is changing, Nihlus. And the past remains the better place._


	10. Obsession

Author's Note: This chapter leans heavily on _The Candidate_ by yours truly.

* * *

><p><strong>Obsession<strong>

Garrus was leading a drunken krogan by the cuffed hands to a padded cell when a familiar smiling face showed up on the news-holo in the main hall of the C-Sec compound. He smiled back at it; no time to listen to the news report now, but he made a mental note to look it up on the extranet later.

It had been nine years since he'd met Nihlus in the Spectre training camp, and Garrus could count the occasions when they'd run into each other after that on his fingers. Nihlus would always greet him with unadulterated cordiality. They would shake hands in the beginning and exchange a brief hug in the end, and it wouldn't be the hands-on-the-shoulders kind, but the long-lingering, full-body, cheek-to-cheek sort of hug that did justice to their one delightful evening of intimacy. Nihlus would promise they'd go have drinks the next time, for he was in a hurry. He was always in a hurry. Garrus didn't mind the white lie, though he did still harbor a healthy amount of longing. Mostly he was proud of the acquaintance, and enjoyed the privilege of nudging a fellow officer in the canteen and saying, hey, I know this guy! And the fellow officer would glance at the news report and say, a Spectre, eh? Lucky son of a bitch. And Garrus would say, yeah. Exactly.

With the krogan secured and the forms M2 through M14 filled in and signed, and questionnaires Q3 through Q7 filled and posted anonymously, _and_ the witness statements run through the speech recognition program, checked, rechecked and filed, _and_ the report template signed by the section PI and marked due next morning, Garrus finally took the elevator down to the wards for a lunch break. The speakers in the cabin were busted again, but he could see the report and the same picture of Nihlus through the panoramic window, displayed on the news-holos all over the Citadel. Something big must have gone down.

He picked up his usual order of dextro pastries and vegetables from Hinley's and took a walk to the rented apartment he'd been sharing with Polox, a young man from Taetrus who was working for Elanus Security. Their schedules were such that they rarely met, and that was just as well; Garrus wasn't keen on making friends. He hated the Citadel, barely tolerated the work, and lived from day to day, constantly waiting for an opportunity, some opening to escape through and start living his life, the life he wanted. The life of a Spectre.

It was a strange thing to admit, but seeing Nihlus on the news always triggered these spells of foul mood, just as meeting him launched cascades of conflicting emotions. He never stopped liking Nihlus; and he was still to have sex he could honestly call better than that quick, furious encounter. In time, he'd started collecting extranet reports on his activities, like he'd used to do with Saren's. Saren had fallen off the radar in the recent years, dabbling in politics and accumulating riches, and Garrus was speculating that he'd even gone rogue; Nihlus was the new hero, the new poster-boy, the second most-decorated turian in the service of the Council _ever_. No, Garrus had never stopped liking him, but seeing Nihlus on the news made him want to snipe someone from the roof of his building, just as meeting him always made him want to beat someone to within an inch of their life with his bare fists.

He sat to eat and brought up the terminal. Scrolled through the daily Citadel headlines, ended up typing "Nihlus" in the search bar to save time. The smiling face came up under the title "Attack on Eden Prime." Garrus scanned the keywords. And put down the unfinished pastry on the tray.

"Son of a bitch," he whispered, leaning in to make sure he didn't misread it. To make sure he didn't _invent_ it. His chest started heaving with excitement.

For one of the keywords was _geth_.

Suddenly he was no longer hungry. He stood up and paced to the window, processing. _The geth had attacked Eden Prime._ He went back to the terminal, checked the report again. Then he paced to the kitchenette, and back to the window. Six paces. That was all the room could take.

"I knew it," he said to himself, returning once more to look at the text. He tried to read it slowly, but couldn't. His mind slipped into the overclock mode and his body was swimming with adrenaline. This was it, he realized. Shivers ran under his plates. "I fucking knew it."

He let out a raspy little laugh, then immediately chided himself for it. The civilian victims on Eden Prime numbered in the thousands. Spirits. The geth had attacked Eden Prime, just like the quarian had said.

Not that he'd ever doubted her word, or her evidence. It fitted too damn well to be a fabrication. Unless someone with a thought process identical to his own had manufactured it. No: the geth _were_ operating within Citadel space and Saren _was_ working with them. And Garrus had guessed it years ago.

"Son of a bitch."

A blinking icon on his visor helpfully informed him that his heart rate had climbed to 151% of its optimal value and he took the hint, holding his breath, closing his eyes. Slow down, Vakarian. Think. You need to find her.

"Yeah," he muttered, then dialed Pallin from the terminal.

The VI answered. "Executor Pallin is unavailable at the moment. May I take a message?"

Garrus hung up. He'd need half an hour to get to the Presidium and he could keep trying as he went. Of course, there was always the possibility that Pallin had blocked him permanently. They could talk for thirty-seven seconds, on average, before falling out over one disagreement or another. Not surprising, given how closely Pallin had worked with Dad. It had been Dad's reputation that had gotten Garrus into Investigations. He knew it in his gut, though it would be heresy to ever say so aloud. As Dad's son, Garrus _had_ to be good enough to promote. As an ex-Spectre candidate, he _had_ to be bad enough to argue over every damned decision. Nobody ever seemed to give a fuck about what he was really like. Sometimes he wasn't sure himself.

The elevator ride had never taken so long. He stood in the corner, bouncing nervously on his toes, clenching and unclenching his fists. The cabin was crowded; it was that time of the day. But the passengers could apparently sense the aura of excitement - or perhaps something more sinister - about him, and gave him some space. He looked each alien in the eye and not one dared hold his stare. The only other turian was sleeping on her feet in the opposite corner.

Garrus tried to occupy himself by repeatedly dialing Pallin and Dr Michel, whom he'd asked to keep an eye out for his quarian.

His quarian, ha! He knew her name all right. He knew everything there was to know about Tali'Zorah nar Rayya. Which didn't amount to much. Just thinking about it made him grit his teeth and clasp his mandibles so close to his chin that they hurt.

It wasn't _just_ that she'd left him with jack shit to show to Pallin, whom he'd literally dragged into his office in front of a hundred witnesses, making for a month's worth of chin-wagging material. The moment he'd realized she was gone was something he'd remember for the rest of his fucked-up life.

"Is this some kind of a joke?" Pallin had said.

And Garrus had just stood in the doorway, paralyzed. She'd been there not a minute ago. She'd been _right_ there, all cute and innocent and fuck! Where the fuck was she? He'd gaped at Pallin, and Pallin had stared back with that awful expression of pity, barely suppressed out of some misplaced sense of loyalty to Dad. And Spirits forgive him, Garrus _hated_ him for that.

Finally he'd dived for his desk. The terminal had come to life, a file-not-found exception blinking from the corner of the voice analysis client. All that had remained of the nice, clean spectrum was a solid, dead flat-line.

"Fuck," he said aloud, then slammed a fist on the table, making the screen flicker and the collection of shit on the surface jump and settle down in a new random configuration. A broken surveillance bot, shaped like a black sphere the size of the palm, rolled over the edge, but Pallin caught it before it fell.

"I don't have time for this," he said. His hand hovered over the desk in search for a spot where he could safely store the bot; in the end he pocketed it. "Frankly, Garrus, I was hoping you were over this... obsession."

"It's _not_ an obsession," Garrus gritted. _You won't call it that when I prove I'm right._

Pallin raised a suspicious eyeridge at him, then looked at the star map riddled with pins and notes, and cast a glance around the office as if expecting something to jump him from the cluttered corners. He didn't even have to say it out loud. _What would _you_ call... all this?_

"I can prove she's been here," Garrus said. His hands were already busy, retrieving the security footage. It would have audio too, though even the original clip was only borderline admissible. At least he could show Pallin that he wasn't delusional. He was being perfectly rational. "Look."

Pallin came around with a tired sigh, and stood behind Garrus with his arms crossed over his chest as the interview with the quarian unraveled in low resolution. He put them down, however, when Saren's voice echoed in the little office for the third time that day. Even with the undertones hopelessly compressed by the third-grade recording equipment, its imperious confidence was unmistakable.

"That's Saren all right," Pallin said, and when Garrus turned to look at him, there was a serious frown on his face.

"I sent a warning to the human embassy," Garrus said. "But I didn't mention him."

Pallin nodded. "Good." He nodded some more. "Good. You better keep this to yourself."

At that, Garrus laughed, but his head hung low. He'd heard those words so many times before. He hated them with a teeming passion, but they could no longer anger him. Instead, they had a kind of a numbing effect: dumbing him down, taking the edge off everything. Off life itself.

That night he'd drunk himself under the table for the first time in ten years. And the way he'd growled at his colleagues the day after was something he wasn't proud of. They were good people. They meant well and liked him, for the most part. And if there had been any serious mockery, it had been kept well out of his earshot. In a volunteer police force composed of people with basic combat training at best, his spec-ops qualifications stood out like a broken thumb.

But the rumors and giggles whispered behind his back weren't what made him angry at the quarian either. He was angry because... aw, hell. She had been so smart and competent. So sure of herself, proud and confident. Not many women like that in his not-inconsiderable experience. He liked her. He'd winked at her, for fuck's sake, and seriously contemplated asking her out after his shift was over.

The anger twisted his guts and made the acid bubble up. He shifted from foot to foot, and the crowd in the cabin shifted too, giving him some _more_ space. The turian in the opposite corner was looking at him. She was wearing the uniform of the Hierarchy Spaceborne Legions. Fuck, how he envied her!

He dialed the numbers again. Nothing.

The quarian was still on the Citadel, that much he knew for sure. Pallin had approved his request to ground her ship. And now that her warning had come true - perhaps he could even get the warrant to search it.

Oh yes. No more "conspiracy theories". The geth were a real threat now and no amount of deadpanning would make that fact go away. In a way, his plan was to go and... gloat a bit. Yeah. Say, _I told you so_. Then move in for the kill and ask for resources to continue his investigation into Saren's murky business.

Saren, bah! Garrus growled in frustration. The man had his talons in everything: from food to weapons to research and information, all with major shares in big companies like Heliat and Binary Helix. Of course nobody knew exactly how far his influence reached _outside_ the Citadel space. Not only was he rich and powerful, he was also a Spectre. Fucking untouchable. But his political machinations didn't implicate him in anything other than being a crafty son of a bitch. None of the dozen incidents pointing to everything from racism to corruption would have registered on Garrus' personal radar if not for Witty, the geth probe.

_Allegedly_, a geth probe, Pallin's voice reminded him from the back of his mind, and Garrus huffed. He'd had found it four years ago in one of the service tunnels usually visited only by the keepers. He'd never seen _anything_ like it. It had appeared to be dead, electrocuted. But after days of tinkering in his dark little office, Garrus had managed to bring it back to life. Which had lasted only for a few minutes, because Witty had used its second breath to try and kill him. It had never even occurred to Garrus that the assembly of tools Witty had been equipped with could be used as weapons, but they had been effective. Too effective. Garrus had had to shoot it down.

However, he had been lucky enough - that one time, at least - to have had his diagnostics running throughout the entire event. The true "holy grail" of what would later become his conspiracy theory had been irreversibly destroyed; but Garrus had been left with gigabytes of data that showed, beyond a shadow of doubt, that Witty had been blessed with true artificial intelligence. Hence the name.

Garrus reported it. He took his data and Witty's bullet-ridden corpse to his colleagues in Forensics, who were as fascinated with the hardware as he. But when he mentioned the possibility that Witty was a geth, nobody took him seriously. He arranged a meeting with one of the quarians on C-Sec payroll for the end of the week; the meeting never materialized, though.

That evening, when he returned to the Compound to pick up a stack of unfinished reports he'd forgotten on account of the excitement, he ran into none other than Saren Arterius. They almost collided in the abandoned hallway. Garrus was both awed and mortified; at that time, he'd still been somewhat of a fan.

"Um... evening, sir," he blurted out, feeling hopelessly inadequate.

Saren narrowed his cold, steely eyes at him under a slight frown of annoyance. He was dressed casually, as much as possible for someone so wealthy and distinguished. The threatening stance, the aggressive set of the shoulders and that colorless, heartless face made him look tall, dangerous and imposing. One thing could not be denied to Saren: he had the aura, and he had the presence. He was the kind of a man Garrus would have followed to death, and proudly, if only he'd been given the chance. The chance to learn, to prove his worth. All this, and a throng of other, blurry, unclear things, went through his mind in an instant.

And then Saren spoke.

"Vakarian," he said, making Garrus inflate with pride and disbelief like a balloon animal. Saren remembered him! It had been five years since the Spectre training camp, but Saren remembered him! The implications, oh, how sad the implications were, and how happy they made him nevertheless. He had been good enough to be remembered. And his youth had been wasted anyway.

The sudden flurry of notions and emotions wiped away all his natural curiosity, leaving him dazed and breathless. Instead of asking Saren what he was doing there at such a late hour, or what he was carrying in the large, heavy-looking bag he had over his shoulder - not that a Spectre would be obliged to answer any of his questions - Garrus simply stood at attention and said, "Yes sir!"

Saren made the slightest nod, kept his eyes trained on Garrus for a few more seconds, then said, "As you were," and strode past him down the hall. He disappeared around the first corner like a ghost.

Garrus stood there for an entire minute, wondering if the encounter had happened at all, then shook his head and put cold hands on his very, very flushed throat.

When he'd gone back to his office, Witty was missing.

#

Garrus' interest in Saren had never been entirely impersonal, but after that bizarre incident, it had turned into what Pallin called "the obsession". Needless to say, Garrus had been unable to prove that Saren had taken Witty. The surveillance in that entire wing of the building had been conveniently disabled, and an overqualified cop with a bit of a reputation could never hope to win the game of "his word against mine" against a Spectre.

But it had been more than enough to plant the seed of doubt in his brain. He'd started collecting everything about the geth he could get his hands on; reading, watching, listening. He'd kept his eyes open, and more importantly, he'd kept his mind open. Eventually he'd had more than one quarian examine his precious diagnostics; none had the credentials to confirm his suspicions in any sort of official capacity, but none had laughed at him either. And when Saren's name had started coming up with an increasing frequency in all kinds of dubious reports, Pallin had become vaguely supportive of his extracurricular activities.

Pallin's interest in the matter seemed mostly limited to his dislike of Spectres in general, and as the evidence wasn't exactly raining down, he seemed content to let Garrus play detective. Of course, when Garrus dug up a couple of tangible things, it turned out that Pallin lacked the quad to do anything with them. Surprising? Not for a fucking second, but that didn't make it any less infuriating. Garrus had learned the hard way that to become someone in C-Sec, it wasn't enough to wear the kid gloves, as humans would say; you had to sing their praises to those below you. That was how the kid-glove culture had been passed on from generation to generation until it became so deeply ingrained in every aspect of C-Sec work that even the smallest deviation from it was looked down upon like some revolting mutation.

Garrus hated the gloves. And as the elevator started to decelerate and he dialed Pallin once again, he'd more than half decided that today, he'd take them off for better or for worse.

"You're a damned pest, Vakarian, you know that?" said the holo with Pallin's face, projected from Garrus' omni, and both he and half of the people in the cabin jumped.

"Yes, sir," Garrus replied. The son of a bitch had been screening his calls all this time.

"What is it? About that quarian again?"

"Yeah. I..."

"Something new?"

"Well, the attack on Eden Prime..."

"Can't talk now. I'm on my way to the Tower. Meet me in front of the Council Chambers in... ten?"

"Yes, sir."

The holo blinked out and the elevator stopped. There was no time to think. Not even to get worked up. Garrus had to run along the lake to catch the cabin for the Tower in time, but he was still late. When he arrived, he found the Executor pacing in an exaggerated display of impatience.

"Sir," he said, more than a little breathless, "I got here as soon as I could."

Pallin measured him from crest to toe. "Speak. I don't have a lot of time. The hearing is about to begin."

"The hearing?"

"About Eden Prime. It seems you've been right all along, Vakarian. It was the geth."

There they were, the words he'd been longing to hear for years, and yet somehow Pallin had managed to deliver them in a way that made it impossible for Garrus to take pleasure in the victory. The knee-jerk reaction, of course, was to hate. Hate and be bitter. Hate and bite back the curses because, damn it, Pallin _was_ Dad's friend.

But then it suddenly dawned on him. How serious this situation really was, now that it had leapt up from his papers and data-pads, from his convoluted scenarios and conjectures._ The geth were operating in Citadel Space._ And thousands of people had died by their hands already. His petty little victory was the last fucking thing that anybody - himself included - should be thinking or worrying about.

Like a slap in the face, the realization made Garrus stagger back, and Pallin frowned at the unexpected reaction. "I thought you'd be glad to hear your... suspicions have been correct."

"No, sir," Garrus said. _Though I thought so too._ "I am not." He stood straight, clasped his hands behind his back, just like in the army, and cleared his throat. "Nevertheless, this calls for action. I'd like you to make my investigation of Saren's connection to the geth official, in the..."

"_Alleged_ connection."

"Yes, sir. In the light of the new evidence..."

"Like what?"

Garrus cocked his head to the side, wondering if they were speaking the same language. What was there to think about? What was there to doubt and hesitate about, now that the enemy had been revealed? "You said it yourself, sir. The attack on Eden Prime? If Saren..."

"How do you know about that? The news-people don't know that Saren was seen on Eden Prime. Who told you?"

Garrus swallowed. He had no idea that Saren was seen on Eden Prime. But if it was true... "Sir, with the voice clip from that quarian, and all the other evidence we've gathered..."

"None of which held under scrutiny, and you know it." Pallin glanced at his omni. "I thought you had something new to tell me," he muttered. "The Council is waiting. Is there anything else?"

And there, there was the anger again, and the bitterness, and the hate. They had been asleep for, oh, about thirty-seven seconds. "Please, sir," he said, although the word burned his tongue. "Saren's hiding something. Give me more time. Stall them."

"Stall the Council?" Pallin scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous." He drew a deep sigh, then shook his head, something reminiscent of fatherly concern ghosting over his features. But Garrus could only hate him even more for it. "Let it go, Garrus," he said, in a deeper, quieter tone. "Let it go before it comes back and bites your ass. And mine."

With that, he turned and left. Garrus stared at his back, fighting the anger that was now threatening to burst out from his chest like a grenade forced down his throat. He willed himself to breathe slower, to push it back, because it was doing nothing for him - it was destructive, and unfair, and damn stupid. It wasn't Pallin's fault. It was Saren's.

_Saren had been seen on Eden Prime. _

"Garrus?" said a familiar voice behind his back. A pleasant, musical voice with a trill of perpetual cheer in it. "Garrus Vakarian?"

He knew the voice. He knew the voice and it made his heart hammer in his chest for an entirely different clusterfuck of reasons as he turned to greet Nihlus Kryik, the face from the news reports, the face from one of his most cherished memories, from a time when he was young and free and ambitious, and had such high hopes for the future.

"Nihlus," he managed to say, his mandibles hanging loose.

"Boy, am I glad to see you," Nihlus replied, and although he was wearing his signature smile, it wasn't doing much to hide his distress. He was in the company of three human soldiers.

"Yeah," Garrus mouthed, and they shared a moment of singular clarity; he was as sure of it as of the daily traffic jam at 1500 hours. Nihlus was an apt reader of people, and Garrus had become quite good at it himself through years of interrogating and interviewing. While his own voice and stance must have delivered the whole truth about how utterly frustrated he was at this moment, Nihlus' betrayed a deep well of dark fears and a profound exhaustion. He too had been on Eden Prime. And now that Garrus had the idea, he found that he could actually smell combat on both Nihlus and his human friends: smoke, blood, burnt textile and dirt brought from an alien world.

"This is Lieutenant Commander Shepard with the Systems Alliance," Nihlus said, gesturing in the direction of a small red-haired woman wearing N7 armor. Garrus met her disturbingly green eyes and gave her a curt nod, which she returned. Next to her was a dark-headed, dark-eyed male, whom Nihlus introduced as Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko. He actually gave Garrus a half-sincere smile, and Garrus tried to reciprocate, but his mandibles were still loose and he must have looked like an idiot. Not that the humans would know. The last to be introduced was a Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, who wore a hard-suit and a hard face, barely visible through her helmet; nobody else was wearing theirs.

"Meet Garrus Vakarian with Citadel Security," Nihlus said at last. "Garrus is an old friend."

Turian hearing translated that readily into, _thank the Spirits, someone I can trust._

"I've seen the news reports," Garrus said, carefully weaving a question in his undertones: _can we speak freely?_

"Yeah," Nihlus said, but his subharmonics said something else completely. "The Alliance wants to implicate Saren in the attack." _But I don't believe it for a second._ "We're on our way to a hearing with the Council and the human ambassador." _And I'm scared._

Garrus frowned. "So you've seen Saren on Eden Prime."

Nihlus frowned as well. "Who told you that?"

"I've been investigating Saren's connection with the geth." He was half expecting Nihlus to cut in and add, _alleged_.

Instead, Nihlus just frowned even deeper. "Come across anything I should know about?" _Say no, say no, please, say no._

"You know better than anyone," Garrus shrugged. "Most of his activities are classified. I couldn't find anything solid." _But I know he's up to something. I can feel it in my gut._

Nihlus shook his head, but Garrus wasn't sure if it was a gesture of denial, or an attempt to get rid of some unpleasant idea. He was totally confused now, and by the looks of it, Nihlus was as well.

"We're running late," said the red-haired woman. She started to leave, with the other two following close.

But before joining the humans, Nihlus grabbed Garrus by the arm. "We need to talk," he whispered with all the urgency that ran beneath their private conversation.

"I'm on duty..."

"Chora's Den, after six."

Garrus reluctantly nodded, but Nihlus was already jogging away. In a hurry. Always in a hurry.


	11. The Hearing

#

* * *

><p><strong>The Hearing<strong>

The hall echoed with their heavy footsteps in the perpetual violet twilight. Nihlus felt as if he were walking through a dream. Everything had a halo of unreality about it. The ancient trees with leaves of gold and brown, never touched by the autumn winds. The deserted paths, watched over by ghosts of countless generations. The glass chasm dividing the pleaders from the judges. But the most unreal of all was the life-sized holo of Saren in the witness stand, shimmering in the distance.

Nihlus shook his head in a desperate attempt to clear his mind, but that only reminded him of the headache. He was falling apart, and the pain was just the tip of the iceberg. Morbid thoughts were attacking him, stabbing him, shredding him from within. Ever since he'd woken up in the sick bay of the Normandy, he'd been investing all his energy into focusing on mundane things to keep the sickening images from the beacon away. It had worked well at first, for there had been reports to review, and calls to make, and unpleasant conversations to be had.

Until he'd received the message.

_The world is changing, Nihlus._

His throat collapsed and he had to gasp for air. Sharp talons, black and shiny, clawed at his guts again in a soft lover's stroke. They had been bleeding him little by little and soon, he felt, he'd just slump down and die. After the message, the images had become an almost welcome distraction.

"You okay?" Shepard asked, putting a hand on his arm.

Nihlus brushed it away. He'd nearly forgotten about the humans hurrying behind him. They were getting close, and Saren looked in their direction. The monochrome sepia of the projection was hiding the cybernetic glow of his eyes well. Too well. Nihlus was reminded of the old days, when he'd been able to admire their natural predatory shine with some understanding of the fire burning within.

_The past remains the better place._

Oh yes. Those had been simpler times. Before politics, before companies, before implants and prosthetics.

Captain Anderson was standing with Ambassador Udina at the end of the Pleader's Bridge, and the three Councilors were in their usual positions on the other side. Fragments of a heated debate reached Nihlus as they approached, and he caught Shepard's worried glance in the corner of his eye. This would be tricky for both of them. She'd have to play the cards that Anderson had given her; and Nihlus, he'd have to dance, blindfolded, to the music Saren hummed in his stubborn, crazy head. It had been a whole decade, and Nihlus had become one of the top agents of the Council, but still he knew, deep inside, that he could do _nothing_ but follow Saren's lead.

_Where I'm going, you can't follow._

Oh, but I will. He caught the cold stare and invested all his spite into communicating a brief but essential message through his own: I'm not letting go. Do you hear me? I _will not_ let go.

Saren must have caught it, because he flexed his prosthetic arm. A new word in the vacant vocabulary of his body language: one that had found use in the recent years to betray frustration. Nihlus wondered, and not for the first time, if the arm was all that had been replaced with a graft. He could count their private meetings since that horrible accident by his fingers, and with each one, their greetings had been more awkward, their conversations more distant, their goodbyes more final. The message had shattered him, but it had not surprised him.

_You must have known this would happen._

Had he known? Really? No. Nihlus wasn't into projecting and predicting. That was Saren's thing. But he'd felt it. In a way, he'd been waiting for it. As much as he'd rejoiced at that sudden invitation, he'd also feared it. As much as his heart had sunk at having to reject it, he'd also been relieved. But Spirits, why now? Why like that? Saren was many things, but he was no coward.

He was no coward, and he was certainly no criminal, rogue, or a traitor. The things these people wanted to pin on him... Nihlus felt his stomach twist in anger. Ridiculous!

And yet, unsettling. Garrus believed it. Which would normally bear no more weight than Anderson's unhidden malevolence, but unlike Anderson, Garrus _had_ something. Nihlus had heard it in his voice, in the way he'd talked to Pallin, unaware of other curious ears. _Saren's hiding something._

Ha. Of course Saren's hiding something. Saren's _always_ hiding something. But not _treason_. Saren would never betray the Council. That would go against all his values, against his very essence. Not exactly an argument Nihlus could use in a public debate, but it was more than enough to solidify his certainty that it was all nonsense.

Dirty. Anderson played dirty. Blinded by the optimistic prospect of cross-species collaboration, Nihlus had kept nothing from him. Just before Eden Prime, they talked over a meal in captain's quarters like old friends, even though that had been their first meeting. The conversation seemed to gravitate naturally towards topics related to Saren, since both of them had been his students, even if Anderson's candidacy had ended in disaster. His opinions sounded moderate, his bitterness subdued despite that fact. And of course they spoke quite a bit about Saren's distaste for humans. Nihlus went out of his way to explain that Saren's venom only found purchase in the ears of so many opponents of human expansion because Humanity kept acting in ways that reinforced his claims: aggressive, loud, selfish, unrefined, demanding a place in a society built on time-honored traditions while rejecting some of its core values. Anderson had looked thoughtful, if not entirely convinced.

And after Eden Prime, Nihlus had been too sick to pay attention. He only remembered the debriefing through a fog of confusion, and even though he'd sensed that Anderson's interest in Saren's unscheduled appearance went beyond surprise and curiosity, he hadn't had the energy to dig under the surface. The way Anderson had stepped over his authority in making Shepard file the report to the Council before Nihlus had had a chance to review it had been suspicious as well. But the report had been accurate, if overly-focused on matters of questionable relevance, so Nihlus had decided to turn a blind eye to the breach of protocol. Then Tevos had told him about the petition from the human embassy, _demanding_ to know what Saren was doing on Eden Prime, and other, even more outrageous things. And in going through with it, Humanity was at risk of losing a valuable ally in Nihlus. He had never been closer to stepping over to Saren's side of that three-decade-old argument than he was now, when Saren no longer wanted his company.

_Do not attempt to find me._

The irony burned. And the thought of burning called forward a memory that was not his own. He remembered burning flesh, liquefied bone, a screaming life-form crucified in the grasp of some unfathomable torture machinery. He remembered the pain. But worse than the pain, was the utter hopelessness. _They cannot be stopped._

He swallowed back the nausea and shook his head again, attracting Saren's attention. Nihlus aimed a stubborn stare at him. Why now, you bastard? And why the hell did I have to touch that damned thing?

They drew near, and the ongoing conversation started making sense.

"... at point blank range," Anderson was saying. "That was no 'friendly fire.' Powell was executed."

"What do you have to say about this?" said Tevos, turning to Saren.

"The human made a sudden movement in the middle of a combat situation," Saren replied without a trace of excitement or anything other than bemusement in his voice. He glanced at Nihlus. "My hand twitched."

At that, Sparatus stifled a smile, and Anderson's face became set with a deep frown. It was nonsense, of course. All of this was nonsense.

"Saren wasn't supposed to be on Eden Prime in the first place," Udina said, directing it to Tevos. _Everybody_ spoke to Tevos, because she stood in the middle and appeared the least intimidating. Talk about a misconception. "Captain Anderson's mission was top secret."

"Spectres have full access to all channels of the Council Notification System," Sparatus replied in a slow, bored tone. "The distress call from your colony wasn't even flagged classified."

Anderson's sarcastic scoff made Nihlus wince. "And of all the Spectres with access to it, _he_ came to the rescue?"

Udina shot a warning glance at him and cleared his throat. "What the Captain meant to say, is that Saren's constant intrusions into the membership negotiations between the Alliance and the Council - with clear intentions to obstruct our candidacy - are a matter of public knowledge. This is not the first time we have been forced to file an official complaint and..."

"That has nothing to do with the attack on your colony and the reason for this meeting." Sparatus waved dismissively. "Nothing you presented here supports the..."

"This is a charade." Anderson stepped forward, closer to the edge. "Everybody knows that Saren hates humans. The only possible reason for his presence there during the attack was that he orchestrated it in the first place!"

A sudden silence fell over the assembly and Anderson's hand, pointing at Saren in the universal gesture of accusation, hung in the air like a forgotten prop on an abandoned stage. Nihlus had been balancing on his toe-tips, and now he set down with an audible thump. All eyes turned to him.

"I resent these accusations," he said. "Saren is a fellow Spectre, and a friend. I will not stand by and watch as you slight his name with _nothing_ to back up your ridiculous claims."

"He murdered a human in cold blood!" Anderson was still pointing his finger at Saren. "He doesn't even deny it!"

"Captain Anderson," Saren said, a rare smile ghosting over his face. "You always seem to be involved when humanity makes false charges against me." He turned to direct his malice at Shepard, resuming in his most condescending tone. "And this must be your protégé, Commander Shepard. The one who let the beacon get destroyed."

That was a low blow and Nihlus almost spoke up in her defense, for now she was _his_ protégé as well. But Shepard was faster. "How do you know about the beacon?" she said, unfazed. "You weren't even there."

"Nihlus sent me your Eden Prime report. I was unimpressed. But what can you expect... from a _human_?"

Nihlus closed his eyes. In any other circumstance, he would have smiled. Saren had a special ability to weave unbelievable amounts of disdain into his words, and use it to bring out the worst in people. It never failed.

"This is exactly what I was talking about," Anderson said. "Saren _despises _Humanity. That's why he attacked Eden Prime!"

Another spell of electrified silence ensued. There was so much tension in the air that Nihlus could almost hear it, a high-pitched vibration exciting his entire body into a state of battle-readiness. Tevos was frowning, and that did not bode well.

"These are serious charges, Ambassador. The geth attack is a matter of great concern, but there is nothing to indicate that Saren was involved in any way."

Anderson started to reply, but Udina lifted a hand to stop him. "Of course not," he said. "The Captain spoke hastily. We only ask the Council to censure his open racism and public displays of hostility towards Humanity."

"Your species needs to learn its place," Saren said in tones so saturated with gloating that there was no doubt the humans could pick them up. "You're not ready to join the Council. You're not even ready to join the Spectres."

Now Udina raised a hand to point at Saren. "_That_ is the reason for our complaints. He has no right to say that. It's not his decision!"

"Shepard's admission into the Spectres is not the purpose of this meeting," Tevos said, signaling Saren to drop the issue. A significant look was enough; Nihlus recognized it, and so did Saren.

"This meeting has long outlived its purpose," he said. "The facts have been laid down and there is nothing left to discuss. The humans are wasting your time, Councilor. And mine."

"Do you have anything else to add concerning this topic, Ambassador?" said Valern, speaking for the first time.

Udina sighed and shook his head. "Not at this time, no."

And just like that, the tension let up, with more than one quiet sigh of either resignation or relief. Everyone seemed to relax a little and the Councilors turned to their terminals. But Nihlus couldn't relax. On the contrary. Something like panic had seized his chest and suddenly it was difficult to breathe, a dreadful realization fighting to assert itself through the layers of numbness and exhaustion: this might well be it. The last time.

_We can never meet again._

He couldn't process the notion. It had no meaning for him, like a phrase in an alien language. He looked up to find Saren looking back. Nothing could be read from his face, not a hint of either gratitude or remorse. _That_ finally sparked of something recognizable in him: anger.

Fuck you, Nihlus told him through the stare, and Saren's left mandible made a minuscule flick in recognition.

"The Council has found no reasons to question Saren's report from Eden Prime," Tevos announced, addressing Udina. "Your petition to mount an investigation is denied."

Anderson's head hung in defeat, and Saren nodded. "I'm glad to see justice was served."

As Valern started enumerating the remaining items on the agenda, Saren exchanged one last glance with Nihlus. Then his holo vanished.

_I release you from any commitment you might think you owe me._

Detached from the reality of his surroundings, detached from the surreal emptiness within, Nihlus kept staring at the vacant witness stand. He didn't believe it. Any of it. He even managed to smile.


	12. Off With the Gloves

#

* * *

><p><strong>Off With the Gloves<strong>

Garrus stood in front of the Council Chambers for a long time after Nihlus had disappeared within. His omni was open, and Dad's picture was staring at him from the contact list, with that signature frown furrowing his thick browplates. It wasn't difficult to imagine the heart-warming greeting that would open the conversation - "What do you need _now_?" Or maybe a "Can it wait? I'm in the middle of something important."

He shuddered. He didn't want to call Dad, not now, not ever. The last time they had spoken was almost a year back - and even then, it had only been on account of Mom's transfer back to Palaven. Dad had been so reserved and reticent it had felt like talking to a wall.

But who else was he supposed to turn to, now that Pallin had pulled his support for good? Dad had friends in high places and would be able to get him the kind of authorization needed to smoke the damn quarian out of hiding - but would he be willing? Would he listen? He never had, but... maybe it was worth another try.

His gloved finger hovered above Dad's picture, closed in, jerked back, closed in again, and then he curled his hand into a fist to stop it from shaking. _No. I'll do this on my own. I can do this on my own._

He dismissed the interface and inhaled a giant breath of air, like a man saying goodbye to life. And in a way, he was. From here on out, it was a one-way trip, as exhilarating as it was horrifying.

#

Docked between two almost identical, brand-new Darwin-class freighters, the Lilei looked like a piece of space junk. A turian interceptor, decommissioned more than twenty years ago, she had probably been sitting in a scrap yard before some enterprising quarian - perhaps Tali'Zorah nar Rayya herself - had given her a new life. Garrus spent some minutes eying the vessel through the viewport. The ship's manifest belied her battered appearance. There were so many custom-modded systems attached to the hull that the graceful lines of the ship beneath were barely discernible.

There was no one in the dark, claustrophobic access tunnel. No surprise. Garrus swallowed back the familiar discomfort and pinged the control panel on the hatch. Just in case. Not that he seriously thought she'd let him in even if she was inside, but it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

He waited for a minute, then brought up his omni. His heart rate spiked as he shut down the C-Sec listening ports one by one. Sure, he could go to work tomorrow and pretend his omni had been broken - or try to. The humans would probably buy it, but lying to Pallin was impossible. It was no more than pointless theorizing, though; after their conversation today, he'd sooner go pole-dancing in the Dark Star than back to C-Sec.

The override came through a lot faster than he'd expected and he went for his sidearm on reflex as the hatch hissed open before him. Something was wrong; he could feel it in his gut. No thermal signatures on his visor, but a sealed suit could mask them. He stepped inside, frowning at the dense darkness and the faint smell of smoke. The motion sensors in the airlock turned the floor lights on, painting the choked space in faint yellows; modded, Garrus thought, pressing his back against the bulkhead at the entrance to the cabin. They'd have been blue on a turian vessel.

He spun around the corner, aiming his pistol at the shadowy compartment ahead, striped by silver light coming from the viewport.

"Aw, shit," he muttered, lowering the weapon. There was nobody there _now_. They had beaten him to it. The Lilei's interior was in a state of complete chaos.

Everything was open - the miniature restroom, the two rows of closets, even some of the maintenance panels. Every container, every nook and cranny had been emptied and overturned. Bullet holes on the far wall - small caliber, low dispersion - no, those were too worn to be new. No blood that he could see or smell, and no signs of struggle. Well, that was something. The smoke was coming from a power junction behind a pried panel, intermittently lighting up with sparks. Garrus looked up to where he'd put a cryo-foam dispenser if it had been his ship, and sure enough, he found one. He sprayed the junction, making a circle of fine white powder under it.

"Shit," he repeated, surveying the scene. A pile of miscellaneous stuff, from spare suit parts to tubes of quarian nutri-paste, littered the navigation console, with error messages blinking in urgent reds underneath. He pushed some of the things over the edge to clear off a portion of the display. The core was offline, reporting critical levels of impurities in the mixture. Garrus shook his head: the flight that had brought the Lilei to the Citadel had been her last. It was a brutal tactic, to disable the ship beyond repair. Someone _really_ wanted to keep Tali on the station.

Someone. Ha! Garrus could practically smell Saren's presence in the air. Son of a bitch.

Most of the systems were either fried for good, or had been shut down by the C-Sec lockout. Garrus tapped the comms. Nothing. He rummaged around a little, looking for something, anything, but it was an exercise in futility. A hard-copy book lying haphazardly on the floor caught his eye and he picked it up. There was a slim, nicely proportioned quarian woman on the cover, held in a protective embrace by a bulky turian man pointing the barrel of an over-sized pistol at the viewer. "Broken Chirality" was the title. Garrus snorted and was going to drop it when his omni buzzed.

Dr Michel. A hushed whisper. "Garrus, I need help," she said, looking over her shoulder. The recorder was set to face-scan only and he couldn't see her surroundings. "They're trying to break in, and-"

"Are you in the clinic?" He was already on his way out, a sudden surge of adrenalin racking through his nerves like chemical fire. _By the Spirits, i__f something happens to her -_

"Yes! I'm in the back but there's no other way out -"

"Stay calm, Chloe," he said, instinctively weaving a deep, parenting undercurrent into his voice although calm was the one thing he wasn't feeling right now. His battle reflexes were kicking in. Find the shortest route. Evasive maneuvers through the crowd in the waiting area; civilians, Vakarian, don't trample the civilians. "Don't panic. Don't fight. Stall them, I'll be there in-"

Shit. It would take him the whole fucking day to get there on foot.

"It's that quarian you told me about, Garrus. She was here. She told me there were men after her but I didn't listen-"

"Yeah." Nobody listens. Nobody ever listens. He steered towards the first parked skycar. Fancy colors, last year's model. He used his C-Sec credentials to get in, scenarios playing out in his mind already, each worse than the last. He goes in, finds Chloe dead, end of story. He goes in, finds nothing, spends the next decade looking for her, his soul withering, lamenting his many failures. He goes in, she's a hostage, she's killed in the gunfight and he can't tell if it was their bullet or his that killed her and he fucking shoots himself._ S__hit. _The one friend he'd made, despite himself, in all the years he'd spent in this C-Sec prison._ I__f something happens to her, someone's going to die, and it's going to be ugly. It's going to be fucking ugly._

Garrus was usually a careful driver but this time he didn't even stop to strap himself in. The traffic was exactly what he'd expect it to be at 1600 hours and the stream of profanities, flowing through his mind like a radioactive river, was only held back by Chloe's presence on the other end of the line, by her uneven breathing. She was scared out of her mind, he could tell from the cadence of her voice, from the pitch of her whispers. Then he caught the crackling of overloaded electronics. They had given up the attempt to hack the lock. They were forcing their way in.

The line went dead and his heart with it.

#

Two minutes and one suicidal ride later, he "parked" the sky car in the middle of the Upper Market Square, sending the crowd scurrying away in panic.

He crouched in front of the entrance to the clinic, pistol readied in his hands, pulse racing. The door was wide open, a shower of sparks falling from the console, and there were voices inside. A weight rolled off his heart. She was still alive.

But she was a hostage. A peek around the corner, just enough for his visor to register three thermal signatures: a small one smothered in the embrace of a larger one, the third on the other end of the waiting room, leaning over the terminal with the patient records. All human.

"I didn't tell anyone, I swear," she was pleading in a broken voice. Another quick peek, then he used the rising clamor from the Market Square to sneak in and press his back against the counter, staying low. He could take out the one holding her. Clean line of sight, and at this range, one round would blow his brains out. Instant kill, no twitching.

Well; that was the theory. Going by the book, he was supposed to try and negotiate.

"Now if that cop comes around, you stay smart," said a gruff human voice. "Keep your mouth shut or we'll-"

Garrus recommended his aim to the Spirits, stood up and took the shot. Chloe screamed, but the splatter of blood and brains on the wall wasn't hers. In the second it took him to ascertain that, the other human opened fire. Garrus threw himself down towards Chloe, sweeping her over the slippery hospital floor with him until they were both safe under the row of seats on the other side of the waiting room. The human shot a few more rounds, uselessly. He wasn't getting away: Garrus had the exit covered.

Chloe's breathing was quick and shallow, like a hunted animal's. She was staring at him, bloodshot eyes wet and glistening in gratitude and trust and... something he didn't have time for.

"Stay down," he whispered, and she gave him a feverish nod. The human reloaded, and Garrus ducked out, took the shot. Another clean kill, but not before he got a good punch in the shoulder.

"Garrus!"

"I'm fine," he grunted, feeling the cracks in the ceramics of the suit. "The armor took it. What about you?"

Instead of replying, she stepped right into his personal space, clung to his neck, and sobbed into his collar. Humans. He patted her shoulder awkwardly.

"It's alright." Despite the discomfort, his voice reverted to the low, comforting modes that translated over the racial barriers surprisingly well. A few moments later, she released him, rubbing her eyes like a child. He holstered his pistol and looked around. "I'm sorry about this, Chloe. I should have known better than to drag you into -"

"Don't be absurd. You saved my life. Again."

"Aw, come on, Chloe." Garrus crouched next to the corpse by the counter, scanned the omni with his own. "That blackmail thing was nowhere near this bad." There was nothing in the armor compartments and he moved to the second body, not quite daring to look at her. "This thing? This is really bad. You need to lay low until it blows over."

"What does that mean?"

The hysterical note was back in her voice and he paused to turn to her. His mouth spoke before he could stop himself. "You can stay in my apartment. You'll be safe there."

She blinked at him a couple of times. "What about you?"

He dug out a datapad from the pockets of the dead human, but there was nothing on it except an outdated version of Space Conquest. "Don't worry about me." He stood up and faced her. "Can you find someone to replace you here for a week, maybe two?"

For a long time, she just stared at him as if the translators had gone offline. It didn't take much effort to imagine what was going through her head. After all the years she had invested, all the sacrifices she had made for the noble goal of providing free medical care to complete strangers - this is what she got in return? The injustice of it made his vision darken, and she must have sensed it, because her shoulders slouched even lower.

"If you think it's necessary."

"Spirits, Chloe, I'm not angry at _you._" It was the truth, but the anger was real and he couldn't keep it out of his voice. "I'm angry at - this." And he gestured at the mess around them. "You deserve better than this, and I should have been here in time to stop it from happening."

Two huge tears rolled down her cheeks and Garrus looked away, trying to keep his mandibles still. After a while, the silence became unbearable.

"Tell me about the quarian."

Chloe wiped her face, moved as if to sit on one of the chairs, but there was a blotch of red blood and gray matter on it and she straightened up, glancing at the others. The entire row was sprayed. She ended up leaning against the counter, shaking slightly, but his visor said her vitals were within normal ranges, so he let her be.

"She came here this morning. Exit wound through the upper arm, some fragments in the bone but no fracture."

Garrus frowned. He'd seen that report. It hadn't rung a bell. Damn.

"I wanted to call you right away," she hurried to add, mistaking his expression. "But the infection was setting in already and I had to work fast. I gave her a large dose of wide-spectrum antibiotics and I wanted to give her an injection of medigel, but she only allowed me to apply it locally. She didn't want any sedatives either, even though she was very tired and frightened. I told her she should remain under observation for at least a day, but she wouldn't hear of it."

"Did she say who was after her?"

"She mentioned the Shadow Broker."

"The Shadow Broker?" It shouldn't have been a surprise. What else would the quarian do with the kind of intel she had, if not sell it to the highest bidder? Now that he had the idea, he looked at the dead humans again. "Chloe, do you know these men?"

She nodded weakly. "I've seen them before. They work for Fist."

Of course. But if the quarian wanted to sell the intel to the Shadow Broker, why would his agent try to kill her? Shooting at suppliers wasn't good for business. There was more to this than met the eye. He could almost feel Saren breathing down his neck.

"I'm going to pay Fist a visit," he muttered. Then he snorted. "I was on my way to the Den anyway."


	13. Played

#

* * *

><p><strong>Played<strong>

Shepard watched Nihlus stalk away with the Councilors. She was concerned. He looked like shit. His eyes were foggy, his voice lacked its usual strength, and his movements were sluggish. Two days had passed since Eden Prime; he wasn't getting any better and attending the hearing had probably drained him of his last reserves. He excused himself from the company and went behind a door. The restroom.

"Alenko, go see if he's ok."

"Why me?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yessir," he said, and jogged away.

Shepard shook her head absently.

"Why does he do that?" said Williams.

"Hmm? What?"

"Call you sir."

"I don't mind."

"Should _I_ call you sir?"

Shepard focused on her, perhaps for the first time since the debriefing. Was she serious? It was difficult to tell. "As long as you follow orders, it's all the same to me." And what the hell did it matter anyway? It wasn't like Williams would stay on board.

"Can I call you Skipper, then?"

"Sure." Whatever.

Williams was obviously craving more conversation, but Shepard's thoughts were elsewhere. Nihlus wasn't her only concern. What the fuck was Anderson doing? She had no idea he harbored such hatred for Saren. Or perhaps for turians in general. Not every veteran of the First Contact War did - only the vast majority.

She snorted to herself and Williams gave her an eager look. Shepard looked away.

Hatred, true hatred, was a feeling as far removed from anything she'd experienced in her violent life, as true love. And just as well. Hatred was counterproductive. Perhaps a scheming little slime like Udina could afford it, but a professional soldier should know better than to let his feelings run rampant like that. Anderson hated Saren's guts so hard he couldn't hide it. That outburst had been a fucking disgrace. And then, after they had all been dismissed, he'd given Nihlus a piece of his mind, in front of everyone. Shepard had thought that she'd have to hold them apart, or worse, but Nihlus, at least, had shown some restraint and left before things could escalate beyond bared teeth and angry stares.

Damn, she wasn't ready for this shit. She'd never signed up for meddling with diplomats and Councilors and whatnot. Whose brilliant idea was to put _her_ through as the first human Spectre anyway? It was a lousy fucking idea. Give me something to kill - whatever! - no problems there. But this was dirty and cowardly and required acting and lying and stabbing people in the back and it made her sick to her stomach.

She wasn't used to feeling inadequate.

At the other end of the hall, the restroom door opened and Alenko emerged with Nihlus right behind him. They exchanged a nod, and Nihlus hurried off. Alenko came walking back at a brisk pace, but when he arrived, he just stood there, silent.

He was weird. Competent, and not overly verbose, which was to her taste. And good looking, which was also to her taste. Perhaps it was the biotics and all the associated baggage. Not that she had any business talking about other people's baggage. Or perhaps it was the way his eyes didn't always smile with his lips. There, that stare again. He didn't approve of her.

But _that_ she was used to.

"So?" she demanded when it became apparent he wouldn't speak up on his own.

A shrug. "He's fine, as far as I can tell. Popped another Dextrocodone. I told him it's addictive. He told me he appreciates the concern. That's it."

"Mmh."

What had she expected? She opened her mouth to ask more questions, but Anderson and Udina were approaching them.

"It was a mistake to bring you into the hearing, David," Udina was saying. "You and Saren have too much history. It made the Council question our motives."

Damn right. But she held her tongue in check, making a note of 'history.' When Anderson spoke about Saren during the debriefing, he'd sounded more than well-informed; but 'history' was new.

"I know Saren," said Anderson, voice still soaked with acid. "His reasons for working with the geth could be anything, but one thing is certain: every colony we have is at risk. Every world we control is in danger. Even Earth isn't safe."

Alenko and Williams exchanged an embarrassed glance, and Shepard felt the same way. That was way, way out there. Saren was a dangerous son of a bitch, that much was obvious, and the way he played them at the hearing was no less formidable than his reputed performance in combat. But Anderson was beginning to sound outright paranoid.

She cleared her throat. "Tell me about this history between you and Saren."

Anderson turned with a surprised expression, as if he'd forgotten all about the rest of them standing there. There was a bewildered gleam in his eye. "I worked with him on a mission a long time ago," he said at last. "Things went bad. Real bad." He paused, as if weighing whether he should say more. "We shouldn't talk about this here. But I know what he's like, and he has to be stopped."

Shepard shook her head. "So what's our next step?"

The only answer she wanted to hear was _retaliation_, but that was her heart speaking, not her head. The Council had made it clear a long time ago that no help from their fleets would be forthcoming in protecting human colonies, and for all the outrage, the geth attack didn't seem to stir up anything more than vague sympathy. So the only reasonable course of action would be to find out what they were dealing with, and quickly; prioritize, in the meantime. Pull troops from the smaller settlements to fortify the developed worlds and hope this was an isolated incident, not the prelude to a war.

What Udina _actually_ said was so removed from her chain of reasoning that she had difficulty parsing it. "As a Spectre, he's virtually untouchable." He mused for a second, barely long enough for Shepard to figure out that he was speaking about Saren. "We need to find some way to expose him."

Right. That's _obviously _our first order of business. Fuck the dead on Eden Prime, fuck the Prothean artifact and fuck the way it made Nihlus sick. _Saren_ is what matters. Saren, Saren, Saren. She was sick of hearing that name and had to fight the urge to roll her eyes.

"What about that C-Sec officer?" Alenko said. "We saw him arguing with the Executor."

"That's right," Williams joined in. "He was asking for more time to finish some investigation. Seemed like he was close to finding something on Saren, or the geth, or both."

"Thank you," Shepard cut in, throwing them both a warning glance. Way to go, feeding right into this madness. What the hell was wrong with everyone today?

"Do you know where to find him?" said Anderson.

Shepard sighed. Talk about a waste of time. "Yes, sir," she said in the end.

Udina looked impressed. He nodded, pouted his pale, flat lips, and said, "Carry on, Shepard. Find this man and see what he knows."

Anderson shifted from foot to foot. "Ambassador, I'm..."

"I don't want the Council using your past history with Saren as an excuse to ignore anything we turn up. Shepard will handle this."

They stared at each other for a time, and then Anderson subsided. "You're right. I need to step aside."

Udina nodded again. "I have to take care of some business. David, meet me in my office later."

He left and the four of them stood in silence for a while. Anderson was studying his toes, and when Shepard finally spoke again, he jumped a bit.

"So you and Saren have a history. What happened?"

He looked up at her, thinking, then shook his head. "Alright," he said. "About twenty years ago, I was part of a mission in the Skyllian Verge. I was working with Saren to find and remove a known terrorist threat. Saren eliminated his target, but a lot of people died along the way. Innocent people. And the official records just... covered it all up. But I saw how he operates. No conscience. No hesitation. He'd kill a thousand innocent civilians to end a war without a second thought."

Shepard frowned. Not _exactly_ what happened on Torfan, but close enough. Which raised the question: if he had a problem with this, why the fuck did he want _her _on his team? "Sometimes a thousand people must die so a million can live," she said, cautiously.

"But _only_ if there's no other way," Anderson insisted. "Saren doesn't even _look_ for another option. He's twisted, broken. He likes the violence, the killing. And he knows how to cover his tracks."

"You know him that well?"

"No, not well." Thinking again, measuring what to say. "I've been tracking his career. Public records, extranet appearances. I haven't seen him up close since..."

His voice trailed off, eyes distant, frown etched deep, and she couldn't help but wonder... But no. She most definitely had no business talking about other people's baggage.

"Udina was right," Anderson concluded. "You're the better choice for this, Shepard."

Finally, some reason. She relaxed a notch, offered him a small smile. "Thank you, sir."

He grunted some reply and walked away with long, thoughtful strides.


	14. Persuasion

#

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><p><strong>Persuasion<strong>

Nihlus didn't know what to make of the fact that every single waitress in the Den recognized him. He had no memory of any of them. He downed a shot of quarian tequila, then asked for the whole bottle and settled into one of the secluded booths in the back. The slow rhythm of the music - drell, as far as he could tell - was resonating with his vocal cavity in a pleasant, dreamy way. For the first time since setting foot on the Normandy, he could relax, let his head roll back, let his eyes focus on infinity. With each drag from the bottle, he was feeling more and more like doing exactly what Saren had suggested: forgetting any commitment 'he thought he owed him' and reliving one of the hottest experiences of his youth: Garrus Vakarian.

Why hadn't he thought of drowning his problems in alcohol before? Oh, right. He was on duty. A Spectre is always on duty, he told himself in Saren's'voice, and tried to gauge the fidelity of his impression of Saren's face from the distorted reflection on the bottle. But no amount of pressing mandibles tightly to his chin and squinting eyes in parody of never-ending suspicious calculation could make him look like Saren. Just like no amount of disdain or carefully-maintained detachment could make him _be_ like Saren, the cold, emotionless, barefaced bastard.

Stop it. You know better than that.

Yeah.

He rummaged through his left pocket for the little plastic case. The temptation to open it and touch the memento inside was overwhelming. His hand clenched into a shaking fist above the magnetic lock. He was barely holding his head over the water as it was, and the badge packed the kind of sentimental punch that would sink him as surely as a ton of rock tied to his ankle.

Hurriedly, he put it away and folded his hands in his lap. One of the dancers was measuring him up from the stage; she spun around the pole, gripping it tightly between her legs and turning her head gracefully throughout the pirouette so as to keep eye contact as long as possible. Her bright eyes were twinkling, her dark lips curling up. Nihlus was about to give her an inviting wink when an armored figure eclipsed his view. In the hushed red light, the blue of the C-Sec uniform looked black and it took Nihlus a second to realize it was Garrus.

"I came as soon as I could," he was saying, slightly breathless.

Nihlus smiled, stood up and pulled him into a brief, rough hug. The hardsuits made it awkward, but when he leaned in to touch cheeks, Garrus returned the gesture with genuine affection.

He smelled of sweat and excitement, and Nihlus saw the new crack in his armor. "Straight from a fight, eh?"

"Nothing to worry about."

They regarded one another for a few seconds, just breathing, testing the water. It wasn't uncomfortable. Nihlus gestured at the table. "Look what I've got," he said softly.

Garrus gave a humorous huff. "And there I thought all those promised drinks were empty words."

Nihlus laughed a little, sitting down and motioning Garrus to follow. He had grown, Nihlus decided, and not just in the breadth of his shoulders. He had been little more than a wiry teenager when they'd first met, and though the years hadn't yet marked his carapace, they showed in his cynical stare as he studied Nihlus' face. Nihlus allowed him to feast; he let his smile wilt and relaxed into an expression of profound sadness that he was only beginning to acknowledge.

"And here I am, falling apart again," he said.

Garrus took a sip from the bottle. The burn made him choke. "Damn. I'm out of practice."

"Being a cop does that to you."

"Has being a Spectre done _that_ to you?" And he gestured vaguely with his mandibles.

"No. Saren has."

"Oh." Garrus took another drag, longer, and this time he didn't choke. "Figures," he muttered.

"What?"

"That the two of you are... close."

"Not anymore." Nihlus swallowed, his pulse suddenly drumming in his ears. Perhaps saying it out loud would make it real, make it stick, make him believe it. It certainly made it hurt. Spirits, it was like a stab in the gut. He reached for the bottle and Garrus passed it over, wiping his mouth with the sleeve on the underside of his right wrist.

"_Oh_."

Nihlus snorted at how his eyes lit up with understanding. "Shit, Garrus. Can't you at least pretend you're sorry?"

"That's not... Damn." His mandibles flickered nervously. "I'm sorry to see you're in pain."

"Yeah." He could believe that. Garrus was a good sort. "What of you?"

"Me? Pfff. No ties whatsoever." His expression changed from amused to something between bored and disgusted. "I hate this place." He whirled a gloved hand to indicate their surroundings, then stilled and stared deeply into Nihlus' eyes, returning the favor by allowing all _his_ misery to come out on the tones under his words. "It's like a disease. Killing me slowly. Every day I do nothing, I die a little."

The way he spat out _nothing_ made Nihlus wince. "What do you mean, nothing? Without C-Sec, this place would fall apart in a matter of minutes."

"I guess being a Spectre doesn't stop you from being naïve," Garrus said, and the sudden iciness of the insult reminded Nihlus so vividly of Saren that he had to take another drag from the bottle to hide his confusion. "The leash is so short you might as well call it a fucking shackle. Your boyfriend is a perfect example. Look me in the eye, Nihlus, and tell me you honestly believe that his hands are clean. I dare you."

Nihlus put down the bottle and straightened himself in the seat. "No need to be rude. If you have something on Saren, I'll listen. But I've heard more than enough name-calling for today. You know as well as I do that Saren is a great man. He's done more for the Hierarchy and the Council in the last twenty years than all their armies together in the last century. If you knew the kind of shit we have to wade through so you people wouldn't have to smell it on your streets, you'd have more sense than to talk about 'clean hands'. Fuck, Garrus. I thought you knew better than that."

"All right," Garrus said, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. "All right. Let's see if you'll listen."

Nihlus nodded, but when several seconds passed with nothing other than nervous mandible-clicking, he urged Garrus with his chin. "Out with it."

"Saren's working with the geth," Garrus said in a low voice. "I've known about it for years now, but I couldn't find anything on him that would stick. Until a few days ago." He leaned across the table, and when he spoke again, Nihlus could smell the alcohol on his hot breath. "I have proof. I just need a little help to recover it."

"You're joking, right?" Nihlus wanted to laugh, but there was no humor in him. "You want _me_ to help you find evidence that will prove... what exactly? That Saren has gone rogue?" Now he did laugh, but the ragged sound of his own voice scared him more than anything Garrus could have told him. Nonsense, it was all nonsense, right? Had to be.

"You can't even begin to imagine just how much that doesn't make sense. Sure, Saren believes the end justifies the means, but that end has always been the security of Citadel Space. Garrus, I'd put my _life_ on it. I can see him doing _whatever_ it takes to serve the Council – and sometimes that means getting dirty. _My_ hands are far from clean and I don't hear anyone calling _me_ out on that shit."

But Garrus' face remained stony. Nihlus took a deep breath. "I could believe that he's working with the geth - _if_, somehow, it leads back to serving the Council," he concluded in the end. "Why _else_ would he do it?"

"To hoard Prothean artifacts," Garrus said. "That much is pretty clear from the evidence I gathered, even if it is all circumstantial."

"Prothean."

"Yeah. Don't ask me why. To study them, sell them? Hell, maybe he wants to make a private collection. But the fact is, he's been implicated in both the artifact raids and the geth reports. Again, nothing substantial enough to actually _do_ something about it." He growled in frustration. "But you don't need to be a genius to make the connection. I'll show you."

Nihlus was transfixed, searching his drained, overloaded and - on top of it all - drunk mind for memories of reports about raided dig sites, kidnapped scientists, missing shipments, and yes, even robberies of museums – wondering if he could have missed it. After Eden Prime, it didn't take a lot of effort to imagine that the incidents involving the Prothean artifacts were correlated with geth activity, but hell, none of it pointed to Saren, and he'd be damned if he'd let Garrus or anyone else drag his name through the mud based on nothing but a bunch of blah-blah. He started to say so, but found that Garrus had moved to sit next to him in the meantime, and was now showing him something on his omni. A star map with at least two dozen pins that he expanded one by one, explaining.

"Vernio, SGD 2182-12-10: a strange vessel is reported by the Solstice, an asari research ship; emission spectrum doesn't match anything from the Citadel register. The next day, a minor Prothean site on the third moon of Polissa is raided. The dig is the destroyed and three of the four attending archaeologists killed. The survivor says she saw, quote, 'a man that looked half turian and half mech and had blue eyes that shone in the dark.' Sounds familiar?

"Silean Nebula, SGD 2183-02-10: turian freighter Hostia loses propulsion and drifts into the asteroid belt in Nahuala. In their last transmission, they reported the appearance of a large ship that doesn't match any known spectra. I'm sure you see a pattern forming. Hostia was transporting a shipment of Prothean artifacts from Palaven to Belan. When the Alliance cruiser Shikoku found the wreck, the crew was dead, the shipment gone, the ship's VI purged and rigged to self-destruct. One crew-member left his omni open during the attack and recorded one point three seconds of video from which I was able to make a partial facial reconstruction that fits Saren's face with 60% confidence based on unique features. Turns out, the threshold to admit a facial reconstruction into evidence is 75%.

"Bellenas Range, SGD 2183-04-15: the negotiations over the exploitation of the asteroid belt in the Lobei System are postponed for a day because Saren, who is supposed to be the mediator, is late. Hours prior to his arrival, the colony museum was robbed by unknown assailants and their entire Prothean exhibition was taken. Later that day, a volus trade vessel, Navarie, reports seeing a huge ship of unknown design and signature orbiting the L3 point of Lobei's substellar companion.

"Iunctio Cluster, SDG..."

Each stab of his finger in the starmap interface was a stab into Nihlus' soul and he felt his very life ebbing through the holes. "Stop it," he whispered.

"... the illegal batarian colony built on top of a Prothean site is attacked from orbit..."

"Stop it," Nihlus said, louder, and Garrus stopped. But Nihlus had to take another drink before trusting himself to speak again. "Any... pictures of that ship? Scans on other wavelengths?"

"Yeah. One. But it's barely..."

"Show me."

Garrus stabbed one more time, scrolled through the files, and produced a blurry thermal image that would have looked like a shapeless blob just two days ago. But now, Nihlus could recognize the 'head' and the 'tail' and the 'legs' all too well. His stomach turned and he swallowed back acid.

Garrus was studying him. "You've seen this before?"

Nihlus didn't want to answer. Instead, he put a slightly shaking hand on top of Garrus' arm. "I see how this makes Saren a suspect for the raids. But even if I believed he was behind all that... the 'proof' you mentioned earlier. What is it?"

"A voice clip where he says something to the effect of 'let's go attack Eden Prime.'"

"Spirits."

Nihlus closed his eyes and ran a hand over his face, trying to make sense of it all. He couldn't believe it. He just couldn't believe it. None of it. None of it made sense, none of it could be true. No. Because if it _were_ true... if Saren _had_ gone rogue, pillaging Prothean sites for artifacts and annihilating anything that stood in his way, because that _was_ his way - if there was a voice clip confirming that he'd planned to attack... then he hadn't been on Eden Prime to help. Not to help Nihlus, or the colonists. He'd been there to steal the beacon and... and...

He didn't want to think. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to be eyeing the sky again, smelling the smoke again, turning to face the barrel of Saren's pistol again. _What the fuck?_

Bam!

His fingers touched the burn mark on his cheek and he shook his head, eyes shut tight. No. No. It wasn't like that, that was not how it happened. It's something else, some misunderstanding, and Saren will be able to explain it perfectly. He has not gone rogue, he has not broken up with me, he still loves me and he most certainly did _not_ consider shooting me in the back on Eden Prime. Nihlus laughed, and he cared little for the hint of hysteria in his subvocals. Ridiculous. It was all completely ridiculous and he would not believe it.

"I can't accept that." When he put his hand down, he found Garrus looking at him with concern. "I can't help you," he said to cement it.

"You have to." The reply was delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone that it got Nihlus' full attention, despite the turmoil in his mind. "If Saren has really gone rogue and you do nothing about it... then you've gone rogue as well."

The simple statement slapped him in the face. "Right," he said, mostly to himself, fuzzy ideas about duty and honor and courage slowly coalescing into something that resembled a decision. "Right."

Garrus regarded him for several long breaths before his ice-blue eyes softened a little. "I'm sorry, Nihlus."

"Don't," Nihlus said. Pity was the last thing he needed right now. The _first_ thing was to drink himself under the table. He took a long, scorching gulp, savoring the burn. When he opened his eyes, Garrus was back on the other side of the threadbare sofa, looking uncomfortable. That's right. He came here asking for help. "What do you need from me?"

"I'm looking for a quarian. She has the voice clip I told you about, and she wants to sell it through Fist."

"Fist? As in, the human who owns this place?"

"Yeah. He's an agent of the Shadow Broker."

"On the surface," Nihlus heard himself say. He couldn't believe he was doing this. But his mouth kept speaking. "He's working for Saren."

At that, Garrus laughed. "I knew it. I fucking _knew_ it. Listen, Nihlus. We don't have a lot of time. If we don't find her first, she's dead. They already tried to kill her."

Shit. If Saren was worried enough to risk exposing Fist... He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Everything was a blur. "So you want to..."

"Press Fist. But I can't do it alone."

Yeah. Nihlus looked around with a tired sigh, remembering the angles. The Den was a fucking fortress. He could probably get them into the back, but if things went bad - and they usually did - there would be a mess, what with all the civilians in the club and everything. He wasn't up for this shit. He was drunk and sad and all he wanted was for everybody to leave him the fuck alone.

"We could use more hands," he said in the end, thinking of Shepard. But just as he was about to say it, a large, strangely familiar shape went by their table, leaving a wake of cold air and a scent Nihlus could not ignore.

He turned around, making Garrus jump. Sure enough, there was a huge krogan headed for the VIP room. Nihlus shot up and found he was a bit unsteady on his feet.

"What is it?" said Garrus.

"If I'm not too drunk to tell," Nihlus replied, stifling a hiccup, "that was Urdnot Wrex. Talk about good timing. Come on."


	15. Good Timing

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><p><strong>Good Timing<strong>

Wrex could smell the shithole called Chora's Den from the other end of the gallery. He leaned over the railing, his gauntlets screeching in contact with the smooth, matte metal, and glanced at the light sky-car traffic below. None of the cars would be bringing him company: that much was clear from the message he'd just received from his so-called support. Fucking amateurs. Held at the docks for trying to smuggle weapons through customs. What did they do - hide them in their pants? Fucking idiots.

He hawked up a gob, then spat, hitting the antenna of a nice green cab with surgical precision. Made him feel a little better. Straightening up, Wrex flexed his shoulders, rolled his neck, cringed at the familiar dull pop.

"Too old for this shit," he muttered, running a thumb over the stock of his shotgun.

The club was every bit as dirty, stuffy and constricted as he remembered, looking only slightly worse for wear. It had been a decade since his last visit to the Citadel but not a lot had changed. More humans everywhere, that was the main thing. At least a dozen pale, featureless faces turned in his direction when he stepped inside, pausing at the entrance to let his eyes adjust to the smoky half-dark. The salarian bartender looked hypnotized by his presence, but Wrex didn't miss the hurried movement of his skinny little arm, probably signaling the security.

Signal all you want, Wrex thought, and gave the salarian a sideways growl as he went past the bar and around the stage, glancing at the ass-shaking asari dancers with no more interest than he had given the slack-jawed patrons sitting at the sticky, littered tables. Two bored-looking humans were guarding the entrance to the back: one was chewing something and when he yawned, Wrex caught the artificial fruity scent from two meters away; the other was smoking a stinking white stick. Cigarette, he recalled after a second of rummaging through recent memories. It reeked of burning fields. Wrex kinda liked it.

Just as he was about to step closer and introduce himself, a familiar turian voice rang out behind his back, rising over the clamor and the slow thrum of the music.

"Wrex? That you?"

He turned around and saw a couple of turians walking his way. The closer one had his face covered in war paint that looked reddish in the dim light and it took Wrex a second to recognize Nihlus Kryik, the bright young Spectre, who once upon a time, had saved his guts. Literally. Shrapnel through a weak spot in the armor just above the right hip, depleted biotics and drained kinetic barriers, and a fucking turian, of all people, stuffing his entrails back into his stomach. Ha! Good times.

"Well, well. Look what the varren dragged in," he said through a wide smile, then took Nihlus by the shoulders and gave him a good shake. "Glad to see you're still breathing, kid."

Nihlus laughed, trying to wriggle out of the grip. "Me too, old friend, me too."

"What's with the cop?" The other turian had C-Sec stamped on his forehead, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, watching them like some oversized bird of prey.

"Garrus is a friend of mine," Nihlus said, putting one hand on Wrex's shoulder and the other on his friend's. "He might be a cop, but he's a damn good cop. Garrus, meet Urdnot Wrex."

"Let me guess," the friend said. "He might be a krogan, but he's a damn good krogan?"

"Good is not the word I'd choose," Wrex grumbled, but took the friend's hand and squeezed. He didn't flinch, and Wrex smirked. "Let's have a drink." Fist can live a few more minutes.

They made their way to the bar. "Last I heard from Clan Urdnot was that Dorema had twins," Nihlus said. Probably meant well, but it was like a punch in the chest.

Wrex looked away. "Dorema is dead," he said. And none of the babies in her last five litters had ever drawn breath, but he kept that fact to himself. Wreav had no business multiplying anyway. "Killed in a raid by fucking Clan Gardash."

Their drinks arrived, but no one seemed inclined to make a toast.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Nihlus said at last. "She was a great woman."

"She was a great warrior. Took five of them with her, in that last dance." He drained the glass in a single gulp. "And she was tired of life anyway. Seven hundred years, kid. I bet you can't even imagine. Eh."

"What will happen to the Clan now?"

Smart kid. Always hits the fucking spot. Without Dorema to keep that fool of his brother in check, the Clan would fall apart in a matter of years, if not sooner. Wrex tucked his head deeper inside his hump, pushing back the familiar rise of guilt, but it was becoming more difficult to ignore with each fertile female lost to mindless infighting. Perhaps after this job, he promised himself. Perhaps after this job.

"It'll go to hell," he said aloud. "It's all going to hell anyway." He waved for another round.

"So what brings you to the Citadel?" Nihlus said after a while.

"The only thing that can: credits."

Nihlus nodded, sipping his drink. But the friend had gulped his down, and his fidgeting was making Wrex nervous. "You in a hurry?"

"Not really..." said Nihlus.

"Yeah, pretty much..." said the friend at the same time, and Wrex snorted.

"What's up?"

"Heard about the geth?" Nihlus said. Wrex nodded. He had seen it in the news. Not that he gave a shit. "I'm on the case. And... I need your help. I need it now."

"Now as in, this very moment?"

Nihlus nodded and Wrex swallowed the rest of his drink. Shit. He studied the empty glass - a pathetic little piece of crap made for civilized little hands and not for krogan fists - then looked up at the turian to whom he owed his life. "At your service, kid," he said, but didn't even attempt to make it sound like anything but the giant pain in the ass it was at this moment. It was bad enough that he had to do the job alone, but to delay when he was this close... Shit.

Nihlus smiled in that strange way of his, communicating anything but joy. Creepy little bugger. He leaned closer, and whispered, "I need to get to Fist."

"No shit," Wrex grunted, than laughed from the bottom of his belly, making the bar shake and the glasses on top of it clink. Nihlus was looking at him quizzically, so he added, "Do you need him alive?"

Nihlus cast a look at his friend. They both seemed to think for a moment, then the friend shrugged, and Nihlus shook his head.

Wrex smiled. "Well you should have said so right away."


	16. Extraction

#

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><p><strong>Extraction <strong>

Shepard squinted in the dim light of the nightclub. It smelled like a distillery and there were nearly naked asari pole-dancing and lap-dancing everywhere. Small round tables riddled with bottles and glasses and rubbish surrounded the bar and the stage. There were all sorts of customers: turian, human, salarian, volus. The music was unpalatable, probably drell or something even more exotic, but there was a rhythm to it and the dancers hardly needed anything else. Out of the corner of her eye, Shepard caught a man sniffing something from the back of his hand. It certainly didn't look like C-Sec maintained a presence here.

"Let's find our guy," she said and stepped further inside. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and other, unidentifiable scents. Shepard's stare lingered on a lonely turian at the table to the far right, but it wasn't Garrus Vakarian. She scanned the rest of the patrons with waning hope. A glance at her omni told her it was almost seven now. They had missed them.

"He's not here, Commander," Williams said. "Neither of them."

"Maybe they're in the back?" said Alenko. And indeed, there was a dark passage leading off to the back of the club. But just as Shepard started to say, "Let's check it out," shouts and sounds of havoc rang out from that direction and all hell broke loose.

In a matter of milliseconds, the entire club was on its feet: people running for the exit, drawing weapons, hiding under tables that were much too small to give any cover. Shepard dropped onto one knee, readied her rifle, noting that her men had taken cover near the door, then rolled forward and sat pressing her back against the bar, mind and body going into the familiar, wide-eyed overdrive. Even from here she could see the blue trails of hyperaccelerated rounds flying across the room. Screams of panicked dancers came from above – someone had been shot. Shepard cursed. What the fuck was going on?

"Shepard, come in," boomed Nihlus' voice into her earpiece just as a round slammed into the bar, somewhere above her head. "Come in, damn you!"

"What?" she barked back, ducking lower. Where the fuck were they shooting from? And why were they shooting at her?

"Oh shit. Shit shit shit. I'm in Chora's Den and..."

"So am I!"

Ah-ha! There he was, a motherfucking batarian, crouching behind an overturned table. _Three, two, one,_ and he got up to fire at her, earning himself a hole under the chin.

"Nice shot," said Alenko, already running to take the position the batarian had vacated. He lit up in rippling, sparkling blues, and directed a wave of dark energy along the wall, picking up litter and chairs and probably people too. "This side is clear!"

Shepard grinned her appreciation.

"Shepard, listen," Nihlus spoke, but they just couldn't leave him alone and when he fired from his beautiful prototype pistol that looked like an Armax Brawler but _sounded_ more like a Kassa Razer and packed custom-built upgrades that made her mouth water – she heard the shots both from the earpiece and the passage to the back of the club. A gurgling groan ended a short silence and then the shooting resumed, some of it over her head. She looked about for better cover to her left but there was nothing there but tables. Facing her was a huge potted plant, and now Williams popped out from behind it and fired. There was a meaty thud somewhere on the dancing stage.

"Nihlus?"

"Yeah! We're pinned! Listen, Shepard. I need you to get out of there, do you copy?"

Her omni gave a soft buzz as it received a tactical update. "Got it."

"You have to hurry. There will be a quarian there to make an exchange with some people – don't let her! And more importantly – don't let her die!"

"Understood," she said, just as a burst of rounds took out her shields. Williams laid down fire above the bar and Shepard ran for the door with Alenko behind her. Pressed against the side of the entrance from the outside, he launched another biotic strike, so that Williams could roll out and join them.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"Fuck me if I know," Shepard gritted. "We have our orders. Come on!"

There was no other way to reach the elevators but to run along the open gallery, like fucking pop-up silhouettes in target practice, but it seemed like Nihlus was keeping everybody in the club busy. After exchanging a quick glance, they simply sprinted for it. Shepard hit her omni the second they made the corner, and sure enough, Nihlus had pinned the place on her map. It was just through the service tunnel on the left, but the door was locked.

"I hate this shit," she said, setting up a quick override. Which failed.

"For Christ's sake," said Williams. "Just slap some omnigel on it."

But then Alenko tugged Shepard aside. "I've got this, Commander."

Williams opened her mouth to comment, but the seal started flickering as soon as Alenko's omni flashed to life, and the door opened after no more than five seconds. Shepard signaled them to take positions on the sides and cover her as she stepped into the murky air inside, aiming at the shadowy corners. Of course it had to be dark and smelly in there, with garbage containers lining the walls and something that looked like a family of space-rats scurrying away at their approach. The only source of light was a broken, blinking holo-panel on the left. At least there was plenty of cover and they moved forward quickly, until Shepard heard voices in front and signaled her men to duck while she sneaked closer.

Two figures were standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, leading out to the Wards.

"Did you bring it?" said the turian.

"Where's the Shadow Broker? Where's Fist?" asked the smaller figure, and although Shepard couldn't see clearly, she could tell it was the quarian from the sound of her filtered voice.

"They'll be here. Where's the evidence?"

"No way," the quarian said, slapping the hand that had started towards her hip. "The deal is off."

The turian stepped back, and Shepard took aim. Two more figures came out of the shadows and, while their intentions might have been entirely honorable, neither Shepard nor the quarian seemed willing to risk it; the quarian started to run, and Shepard shot the turian, with Alenko and Williams taking out the other two in a burst of sound and smoke so quick that it was over before the broken holo had flashed twice.

The quarian had fallen down and just as Shepard approached to give her a hand, the door at the top of the stairs opened. Nihlus came in, with Vakarian and a krogan of imposing appearance following close behind.

"What is this?" the quarian said. "Who are you people?"

"You're safe now," said Vakarian. "Remember me?"

"Yes. Yes I do."

He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down on the quarian accusingly. Shepard holstered her weapon and took a step closer with a disapproving frown. Nihlus caught her stare but deflected it with a flick of the mandible that she couldn't read, and turned to inspect the nearest body.

"This is all my fault," the quarian said in a shaky voice. She looked about ready to faint. "I shouldn't have left that day. It was a mistake, a horrible mistake, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Vakarian was nodding, but he didn't speak.

"What's going on?" Shepard said finally. "Nihlus? Talk to me."

But instead, Nihlus spoke to the quarian. "What's your name?"

"What's it to you?"

"I'm a Spectre. Speak."

But she didn't. Not right away. She looked at Vakarian, and only proceeded to answer when he gave her a nod. "My name is Tali Zorah nar Raya. Fist set me up. His men tried to kill me. Twice. I knew I couldn't trust him."

"Did you?" Vakarian said.

"I'm sorry. It was stupid of me, I know that now. And I almost paid for it with my life."

"And not just you."

At that, the quarian let her head hang low.

"These are Fist's people alright," the krogan said. He'd been turning over the corpses and taking their helmets off.

"Who's Fist?" said Shepard.

"An agent of the Shadow Broker," Nihlus replied, earning a strange glance from Vakarian. Shepard narrowed her eyes at them. There was some communication going on there that she wasn't in on, and she didn't like it.

"We took care of him," Vakarian added after a few moments of tense silence, addressing the quarian. "You're safe."

"Thank you. You saved my life. I..."

"Yeah," Vakarian cut in. "Do you still have that audio clip with you?"

"I do."

"What clip?" Shepard said. "Nihlus! Talk to me, damn it!"

"Tali has evidence that implicates Saren in the attack on Eden Prime," Vakarian explained, after it became obvious that Nihlus wouldn't.

A gasp from WIlliams, followed by a nearly whispered "Fuck," from Alenko, expressed Shepard's surprise far better than she could and she frowned deeper, calculating. That was one hell of a U-turn and if it was true... then Anderson had been right all along and...

"She brought it to me before the attack on Eden Prime but..." Vakarian peered towards the quarian, as if measuring what to say next. "But I was instructed to ignore it, so she tried to sell it to Fist," he said at last. Shepard thought she could see the quarian exhale with relief. Oh yes, there was _a lot_ of communication going on there that she wasn't in on. Her gaze darted to Nihlus, but his eyes were hidden under his hand, massaging his forehead.

"We shouldn't talk about this here," he muttered. He looked even worse than before.

"Let's take her to the embassy," said Williams. "The Ambassador and Captain Anderson should hear this."

"Not before I hear it," said Nihlus, and there was a tone of finality in his voice that made the complaint Shepard was planning to voice die on her lips. "I know a safe place. Let's go."


	17. Conclave

#

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><p><strong>Conclave<strong>

Well I'll be damned, Garrus thought as they entered the Consort's chambers. He'd never been farther in than the main hall – the so-called 'waiting room' – and he'd never seen Sha'ira in person. The theme of the decor was 'twilight on the lakeshore'. Holos of shimmering water, distant mountains and a couple of faint moons in a pink sky projected on the walls, and noises of night-creatures and the wind in the reeds playing in the background. That smell of wet sand - was that part of the elaborate illusion? Or only in his mind?

In the middle of the room, the famous asari Consort was reclining on a large water cushion that plopped softly when she got up. The magic of her presence was irrefutable and he acknowledged it, watching every graceful movement of her lean body, perfectly traceable through the iridescent gown that adhered so closely he could see her erect nipples and her tiny belly-button.

"Nihlus, darling," she said, spreading her arms in invitation. Her voice was deep, musical and pleasing even for turian hearing. When Nihlus stepped forward and lowered his head on her shoulder, Garrus snorted. A lucky son of a bitch indeed.

"I need your help," Nihlus said.

"For you? Anything."

Almost the exact same words that the krogan, Wrex, had used when Nihlus had asked him to join them. But maybe it shouldn't have been a surprise. There were few things in existence worth more than the friendship of a Spectre. If Nihlus were to ask some favor from _him_, would _he_ be capable of refusing?

They weren't friends, not _really_, and he suspected that both Wrex and Sha'ira were somehow indebted, unlike him. On the contrary. He felt that Nihlus owed _him_ something. Nihlus owed _him_ for not making him a Spectre. How odd that he should only discover that now, so many years after that ordeal. The rotten feeling he'd always get when meeting Nihlus, that thing lurking under the envy and the attraction that just wouldn't die – he had finally identified it as simply being wronged.

He shook off the strange thoughts. While he had been pondering, the others had made themselves comfortable on low seats and cushions. There was something fundamentally wrong with the scene: soldiers of all different races, armed to the teeth and in full combat armor, surrounded by the softness and the beauty and the undeniable serenity of this strange place and its mystical mistress. Garrus found a soft seat for himself as well, sinking awkwardly into a huge cushion next to Shepard.

She turned to give him a significant look, shot another in the direction where Nihlus, Sha'ira and Tali were standing, then stared back at him. Like some kind of question.

"What?" he said in a low voice. It didn't feel right to speak aloud in here.

"You're friends with him, right?" she whispered. "Why is he protecting Saren? I know Saren was his mentor, but to go this far..."

Garrus puffed through his nose. Of all people, why should he be the one to explain this to the human?

"They're close," he said.

Shepard's quizzical expression didn't change.

"_Very_ close."

"Oh," she said. Her quizzical expression _still_ didn't change.

"You better ask him about it," he concluded.

Nihlus was saying something and Sha'ira was shaking her head, and then Nihlus turned on his omnitool and Tali did the same. Garrus leaned forward to try and catch the hushed conversation, but the seat was too amorphous and he sank back into it again.

"He wouldn't try to run with the evidence, would he?"

Garrus turned to study Shepard closer. She didn't appear to be very bright, but in this matter, she mirrored his thoughts. No way around it; he didn't know Nihlus well enough to guarantee a thing and so he had to shrug, to which she responded by shifting, or trying to shift, into a more alert position. A glance at the other two humans - Alenko and Williams, if he remembered correctly - huddled together on a very low, very soft sofa to the far left of the room, told him they were likely having a similar conversation. Both were following every move Nihlus made with keen, mistrustful eyes. On the other side, Wrex was reclining comfortably in a round cushion that was barely visible under his immense body. He seemed entirely unconcerned.

If something were to go terribly wrong – and there was nothing Garrus could do to stop his mind from visualizing the worst case scenario – it would be him and the three humans against Nihlus, Wrex, and the Consort, who was probably a trained biotic. He snorted at those odds.

Everyone rose to their feet when Nihlus and Sha'ira moved for the far side of the room. A large, pale terminal popped up from a workstation that had been cleverly disguised as a rock. Sha'ira tapped into the controls, and the sounds of the lakeshore vanished together with the fancy lights and holos. With the spell gone, the chamber and its white walls looked empty and clinical.

"Let's hear it," Nihlus said, and Garrus was pretty sure that no one but him could appreciate the willpower invested in those three simple words.

Tali started her omni and after a second, the familiar voice echoed through the silent room.

"Set course for Eden Prime. The beacon will bring us one step closer to finding the Conduit."

"That's Saren's voice," Williams exclaimed. "This proves he was involved in the attack!"

Garrus noted how Nihlus' complexion had faded. He started to say something, but Tali cut in. "Wait, there's more. Saren wasn't working alone."

She replayed the recording of Saren's voice, making Nihlus wince. But after that, a female voice spoke in reply. She said: "And one step closer to the return of the Reapers."

"I recognize that voice." Everybody turned to Sha'ira. Her violet eyes were round in surprise. "Play it again, please?"

Tali complied, and as the female voice delivered her gloomy line again, Sha'ira nodded. "That's Matriarch Benezia."

"Figures," Nihlus said, running a hand over his tired face. "They've known each other for a long time, and have common investments in – what was the name?"

"Binary Helix," Garrus said.

"That. Thank you."

"She has solid political support on Thessia," Sha'ira volunteered, "and a great many followers. Some of whom may even be considered fanatical. But she has all but disappeared from public life in the last year or so."

"And now we know why," Garrus muttered.

But Nihlus was shaking his head. "I don't... why would she want to... what the hell are they doing?"

When nobody spoke for some seconds, Tali cleared her throat. "According to the memory core," she said, "these 'Reapers' are a hyper-advanced machine race that existed fifty thousand years ago. They hunted the Protheans to total extinction and then they vanished. At least, that's what the geth believe."

"Sounds far-fetched to me," Wrex murmured, but Nihlus was frowning.

"You don't know the half of it," he said, glancing at Shepard. "See, I had a... vision on Eden Prime, when I touched the beacon. I assume the same beacon he mentioned. And I understand it now. At least I think so. I think I saw the Protheans being wiped out by these Reapers."

"The geth revere the Reapers as gods, the pinnacle of non-organic life," Tali said. "And they believe that Saren knows how to bring them back."

Alenko snorted. "The Council is just going to love this."

"No," Nihlus said simply. "I'm not going in front of the Council with myths and visions. We need to stick to the facts."

"I don't know about the rest of this," Garrus said, stepping forward and forcing Nihlus to look at him, "but the clip proves Saren was involved with the attack. Or do you still doubt it?"

Nihlus shook his head. "No. The clip is authentic. The words are clear. No room left for doubt." He looked like he had more to say, but ended up spreading his mandibles in one of those awful fake smiles, glancing over their expectant faces.

"I still think we should take this to the embassy," said Williams, talking mostly to Shepard, but Shepard was looking at Nihlus.

"You do intend to inform the Council about this, right?"

"I intend to go after him," Nihlus said, and there was a new note in his voice. Resolution. "You can come with me, if you want."

The words were directed to Shepard, and disappointment crawled up Garrus' chest like some disgusting insect. Up until that moment, he hadn't really considered leaving the Citadel to go with Nihlus. But now that it started to look like it wouldn't happen, he found it was exactly what he wanted. The chance he'd been waiting for, after all these years. He opened his mouth to say something, but Shepard was faster.

"I have a better idea." Her eyes narrowed in calculation. "Why don't _you_ come with _me_?"

"You mean, take the Normandy."

"Why not? I'm sure the Ambassador will send us after Saren anyway, and you know more about him than any of us. So let's join forces. Surely you don't think you can go against the geth on your own?"

At that, Wrex let out a deep, amused chuckle. Nihlus shrugged, and Garrus smiled. Damn right he thought he could, and the worst of it was, he probably _could._

"Nihlus, that's crazy."

"No it's not," Wrex said now. "For one, he wouldn't be going alone." And he made a barely perceptible bow to indicate himself.

Garrus straightened up and swallowed. It was now or never. "I'll go with you too," he said, putting it out there, putting it all out there. And when Nihlus turned and rewarded him with eyes full of gratitude, and perhaps _understanding_, all Garrus could do was to tighten his mandibles and give a stern nod, loaded with all the false confidence he could muster.

"And so will I," said Tali.

"I thought you were on your pilgrimage," Nihlus replied.

"Information about geth activity and their plans would affect the security of my entire people. There is nothing more valuable I could bring back to the Flotilla."

She turned to Garrus around the half-mark of that speech, the blurry shine of her eyes resting heavily on him. His earlier display of disapproval must have left some impression if this was her way of seeking atonement. And now Nihlus was looking at him too, as if waiting for a recommendation. _Fuck_. Without her ship, Tali was looking at a year on the Citadel at least, running from one lousy job to another, wasting her talents on fixing broken datapads and garbage compactors for little more than grumbled thanks. And Garrus knew how that felt. He knew all too well and he couldn't wish it on another, even if she was a slippery little bugger.

He shifted uncomfortably, aware that time was ticking and that everybody was looking at him like it was his decision. "We could use an expert on the geth," he said at last.

Nihlus nodded. "All right. Welcome aboard."

Sha'ira laughed. "I suppose I should sign up as well?" She put a hand on Nihlus' arm. "I am no warrior, but I might be able to help nevertheless. I will attempt to find out more about Benezia's business and connections."

"That would be helpful. Thank you."

"Well, we know that Binary Helix is based on Noveria," Garrus offered.

"Noveria," Nihlus repeated quietly, looking through Garrus at something far away, or a long time ago. "Guess that's as good a place to start as any."

"Hold on just a second," said Shepard. "You're not serious, are you? The Council needs to hear that clip. They'll..."

"I'll notify the Council," Nihlus sighed. "They'll strip Saren of Spectre status. That will give us a bit of an advantage, though I bet he's hiding in the Terminus, where that title doesn't mean a thing anyway."

"Nihlus. You can't just cut us out. All of this started with an attack on a human colony, remember?"

"And what do you think will happen if Udina gets his hands on this? He'll want the Council to send an entire fleet to guard human worlds in the Terminus. Even if they agree, which you and I both know won't happen, the fuss he'll make will only push Saren deeper into hiding. Look, I know how he thinks, okay? My best chance of catching him is by going after him alone."

"_Your_ chance? This isn't about you and your personal business with Saren. Until we find out what the hell is going on, the safest assumption is that we have a war with the fucking geth on our hands. It's a threat to every species in Citadel space."

Nihlus stared at Shepard for the longest time, while Garrus, and by the looks of it, everyone else, held their breath.

"Fine," he gritted at last. "We'll take the Normandy. But under one condition: we leave Udina out of this. It's bad enough as it is. I won't have him using Saren as leverage for his agenda. Speak to Anderson. Convince him to give you command over the ship."

Shepard blinked at him. "How the hell do I do _that_?"

"Tell him what you told me. That this isn't about his personal business with Saren."


	18. The Ghost

#

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><p><strong>The Ghost<strong>

It was very dark and cold in this part of Sovereign. Saren had never been here before; or if he had, he had no memory of it. Which would be no surprise at this point. He had gotten used to the idea that he was forgetting some of the things that he'd done, the same way he was remembering various things he hadn't.

Closing his eyes was sufficient. _Silver spires touching the uniform, gray clouds in the distance. Silent, empty fountains on the terrace, naked pipes that somehow defile the familiar sight, revealing the mechanics behind the illusion. The soft white cover doesn't reach the entrance: there's barely some around the railing, piling up in the recesses._

Saren had been in the Temple of Athame several times, but not during winter. He had never seen snow on Thessia, yet there it was, furling and drifting and melting on the five fingers of his thin, blue-skinned hand.

Not all memories were so easy to tell apart. _A long day in the courtroom. Wishful glances through the tall windows at the spectacular blue sky outside. Fighting drowsiness while the elcor representative is delivering the closing word for Forey-Dar'Akhus Pharmaceutics. There's a slender turian woman sitting in the first row, partly turned, looking at him. His people have already checked her out. So he gives her a half-smile. Vague echoes of rhythms and moans. Not enough time to enjoy the afterglow._

Forey-Dar'Akhus Pharmaceutics had lost the legal battle that day. Their assets had been divided between three smaller companies that had disappeared, leaving no more than a footnote in the economic history of Outer Council Space, more than three hundred years before Saren was born.

The rustle of soft footsteps awoke him from the reverie and his eyes shot open just in time to see the shadow move.

"Stop right there!" he said, infusing the shout with all the well-learned, well-earned authority he could gather. The figure ignored him and darted around the corner, the back of its long, violet robe trailing behind its feet. Saren growled and hurried behind it.

It wasn't Benezia. He knew her scent, her steps, her sounds, her very thoughts. No. It was somebody else. An alien. A spy. Perhaps it was Nihlus. Saren could no longer be sure of anything.

Even if he were to disregard the dark doubts about _being affected_, he couldn't deny the severity of the blow he'd taken when they'd stripped him of his Spectre privileges. It was crippling. Blinding and deafening and disfiguring. He had been preparing for that eventuality for years, building his own networks, securing his own resources, so the practicalities were of no particular concern. Other, abstract things were at stake, though they shouldn't have been. Like his sanity. His struggle to suppress the horrifying feeling of being set adrift, of becoming permanently, _finally_ detached from everything he'd been working so hard to preserve, was growing disorganized, desperate. There was a constant burn in his chest, eating away at him, reducing him to nothing from the inside like some slow-acting acid, and none of his careful rationalizations seemed to be effective against it. In taking away his status, they had _diminished_ him, and he was helpless in front of the black tide of hate and anger. All the years, all the sweat and blood he'd invested in studying, training, fighting; all the unspeakable things he'd seen and done to make sure they could frolic in the silken comforts of their safe cocoon – all of that somehow held less weight in the eyes of the Three than one archaeological outpost on one human colony.

And then there was the black pit of certainty that they would have turned a blind eye to it – like they had done so many times during his long service, and in face of far greater terrors – if Nihlus hadn't sided against him.

Saren clenched his teeth and hurried forward, following the shadow deeper into the bowels of the ship. No, he concluded, he had never been to these particular halls. They were frigid and empty and lifeless, much more so than the other parts of the ship, where there were lights, and motion, where there was something _happening_, something to confirm that time was indeed still flowing. It was getting darker and darker the deeper he went and eventually his cybernetic eyes switched to night mode, painting the world in monochrome green. The halls were growing smaller, turning into tunnels. But other than that, it all looked the same in every direction. It would be easy to get lost inside Sovereign. Get caught in some loop where no photons dared fly and where his night-vision would be useless. Walk in circles, blind and hungry, touching the cold metal until his blood went cold as well.

Movement in front. This time he was ready. "I said, stop!"

He ran forward. But when he reached the corner, there was no one there. It couldn't be Benezia. Benezia was shorter and much leaner and certainly didn't have the profile of a grown turian. What if it _was_ Nihlus? What would he do if he caught him? Perhaps it would be better not to?

As the treacherous thought flashed through his mind, the familiar pain flooded his senses so that he had to lean against the uneven, hard wall until it passed. The most horrible feeling. Like swallowing fuel on fire, flames licked the back of his throat before spreading downward and outward, sweeping through his chest and guts and finally covering the entirety of his skin in hot, burning sweat. It was getting worse. Each time, there was a new component to the sensation, a new _flavor_, something fresh and unexpected so he couldn't possibly get used to it, learn to filter it, ignore it. Sovereign would not be ignored.

Saren lifted a hand to the back of his neck and felt the amplifier behind the right mandible. It was so hot it burned his finger, and the flesh around it was blistered. A careful touch – yes, the other one too. He swallowed through a dry throat and let his head roll back against the wall. The idea that Sovereign was acting as if it was jealous of his affection for Nihlus made him grin despite the fear and the echoes of pain. There was something strangely rewarding in the way it would always evacuate from Saren's processes when he experienced strong emotions, like fear, or pain, or...

Could the brass god have... _feelings_? It would be the ultimate cosmic irony.

Very little in the way of cosmic ironies could surprise Saren. He opened his eyes, pushed himself away from the wall and tested his knees. Just in time. The shadow was moving again.

"Nihlus," he shouted, but his voice broke on the name. "Show yourself!"

He was ready to leap forward, but then the figure turned, and Saren glimpsed the face under the hood. A mirror of his own, with dark stripes of color running under black-hole eyes like bloody tears.

Saren froze in mid-motion, as if splashed with liquid nitrogen.

It wasn't Nihlus.

Precious seconds passed before he regained a measure of control. Before he found his voice and begged the figure to stop. Before he found his strength and ran forward into a patch of complete darkness. His vision became blurred, outlines slowly drowning in the thermal noise. Something like a prayer was ringing in his mind, words of faith, repeating over and over again. Impossible. Impossible. This is not happening. Please, please. This is not happening.

And then he turned another corner and laid his hands on something that stood in his way. Someone. A high-pitched female scream, a short-lived outburst of light, a tinge of biotic sparks on his skin.

"Saren! Stop that!"

He turned the figure around. And sure enough, _now_ it looked just like Benezia. It shone a flashlight into his face and for an instant, the world became sickeningly white as the sudden flare saturated his high-efficiency optics. He slapped her hand away, and she staggered back, reaching for the wall to steady herself. The flashlight hit the floor with a painfully loud clank that continued ringing long after the offending ray blinked, stuttered and went out.

"Where did he go?" Saren growled, stepping forward. If she was here, the intruder must have gone another way.

"Who?"

"You must have seen him. He went past this junction a second ago."

"I have seen no one but you."

"Don't lie to me."

He could hear her swallow. Of course she'd seen the ghost. Why else would she be here?

"Speak!"

"I saw something," she hissed between her teeth. "But it was not what you think."

"What do I think?"

Her breathing came to a halt. He could almost taste her fear, like a cloud of fine vapor, enveloping them both. Her mouth was working, he could hear every moist slide of her tongue over her dark, fleshy lips. She couldn't see a thing, he realized. Her eyes were sampling the space in wild, wide arcs, chasing after the echoes of his words.

"What do I think," he repeated in a lower, subdued voice.

"Goddess, Saren," she breathed, her unseeing gaze fixating on something roughly half a meter to his right. "I remember him too. Not his face or voice. I remember the _memory_." Her eyes closed and she continued in a whisper. "Standing in the water. Green breeze on my face. The path is still there but the bridge is not to be used. So says the sign. I crossed anyway. Silver fish around my legs, swimming upstream. Unafraid, because I have not moved for hours."

She fell silent and they stood motionless for a long time. Then she moved, blindly, a shaking hand reaching for his face. Her aim was off but he took a step back just in case. The urge to simply leave became overwhelming. He picked the flashlight up and put it in her searching hand.


	19. Small Talk

#

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><p><strong>Small Talk<strong>

_One day before the attack on Therum._

"What really happened between Anderson and Saren?"

Nihlus looked up from his datapad. On the other side of the featureless table sat Ashley Williams. She was balancing her chair on its hind legs and staring at him almost accusingly beneath a raised eyebrow and a sharp black line of hair savagely pulled into a bun. To her left, Shepard stopped what she was doing. The parts of a disassembled Kessler were laid out in front of her like the pieces of a children's puzzle. She'd been tinkering with it for hours, trying to fit it with an obviously incompatible, high-capacity heat sink. To her credit, she seemed to be possessed of an unlimited supply of patience. Seated on the opposite end, Kaidan Alenko stopped chewing on a sandwich that smelled of fish and something faintly sour. Only a biotic would eat this late into the night cycle. Other than the four of them, the mess was deserted, and every sound they made echoed off the tiled floor and the gray bulkheads.

It had been less than a day since they'd left the Citadel. Sha'ira had come through even before the transfer of command was made official; the journey to Therum, where Benezia's daughter, Dr Liara T'Soni, was excavating a Prothean site, would take about as long. They had all agreed that it was too much of a coincidence to pass up. Nihlus had been strangely relieved. He didn't want to go to Noveria. The wardrobe in Saren's apartment was full of _his_ civvies and now his mind latched on mercilessly to a pair of very old slippers, remembering a bit of nonsense Galea had told him a long time ago: you know you've moved in when you leave the slippers behind.

He swallowed, glancing from one human face to another. What a surprise it had been to discover that among all the people constantly seeking his company, this trio of humans was the least bothersome. Well, except for Wrex. But Wrex had taken up a cubicle down in the hangar and Nihlus was giving the hangar a wide berth because Garrus was there as well, fiddling with the Mako and possibly even sleeping in it. After Shepard had moved her stuff to the captain's quarters, she had graciously assigned the vacancy to Garrus, for what could be more natural than putting the only two turians on board in the same room?

Neither of them would dream of complaining, of course. They would simply spend their time elsewhere.

Oh yes. Garrus was the most bothersome of them all. Not his fault. On the contrary: he'd read the signs well and wasn't insisting. He was bothersome because he made Nihlus doubt and yearn, then feel guilty about it. He made Nihlus think, and Nihlus didn't want to think. He just wanted the damn time to pass faster.

Might as well spend it talking.

"Eh." A tired sigh. "Anderson was supposed to be the first human Spectre, and they assigned Saren, of all people, to train him."

"No shit," said Williams, the other eyebrow going up as well.

Shepard put down the tweezers and wiped her hands on her pants. "He never told me."

"I'm not surprised. It was a mess. They were to eliminate a group of terrorists who holed themselves up in an eezo refinery on Camala. Thing is, they were holding Anderson's woman, and, if you go by Saren's version, Anderson endangered the mission because he put her safety above other priorities. So Saren blew up the refinery."

Alenko choked on his sandwich and sprayed wet crumbs all over the table, earning himself a disgusted grimace from Shepard: some of it ended up on her pistol. "He blew up an _eezo refinery?_"

Nihlus shrugged. "That wasn't unusual for Saren, back in the day." He half-smiled to himself. During the decade of their friendship, Saren had definitely softened, and Nihlus liked to think it was due to his influence. "Anyway, they killed the terrorists and saved Anderson's woman, but Saren's report buried his candidacy."

"You don't sound like you believe that story," Shepard said.

"Ha."

"What does that mean?"

"Between Saren's distaste for humans, and Anderson's distaste for Saren, who knows what really happened?"

"Oh, come on," said Williams. "You must know _something_."

Nihlus tucked his mandibles. He didn't, and even if he did, he was certainly not obliged to share. But Alenko spoke before he could. "The Council arranged that on purpose. And got exactly what they wanted: two decades before Humanity proposed another candidate for the Spectres."

Shepard narrowed her eyes at Nihlus. "By that logic, assigning _you_ to train _me_ would mean that now they _want_ a human in the Spectres?"

"Probably, yes," Nihlus said. "As a test before they consider giving you a seat in the Council."

She hummed some unintelligible reply, folding her arms. There was no mistaking her attitude about the political aspect of the position. Nihlus could sympathize to a degree. He'd been wary in the beginning as well, but he'd adapted quickly, and even enjoyed the publicity from time to time. Not all agents were expected to, however. Which was good for Shepard, because she really didn't seem like the type. He glanced at Alenko, who had finished his meal and was measuring Shepard with vaguely disapproving eyes. _He_ seemed like the type.

Nihlus snorted to himself. Slow down, Kryik. One human Spectre at a time.

"Why does Saren hate humans?"

Williams again, with that same tone and the hostile gleam. Of course she'd ask that. And why the hell not? Still, Nihlus wished the conversation would steer away from Saren. He didn't trust himself to talk about him. Never had, but now it was even worse than usual. He had no idea what his face looked like, what his eyes betrayed. The need to be alone suddenly turned into a physical sensation, like a thirst, deep inside his chest. Nowhere to hide, though.

"Saren doesn't _hate_ humans," he said, wondering if any of them could pick up how tired he was from the tones of his voice. He'd met only a handful of humans who seemed to have an intuitive understanding of the mid-range harmonics that made it through the translators, but most couldn't recognize anything but the strongest emotions. With Williams, even that was in question. Alenko's face was unreadable, and Shepard was looking at him expectantly. _If we're going to work together, I should warn you: I don't know the first thing about turians. _

Shit. Explaining one of the most complex individuals his race had birthed since the times of Clausius would be a challenge even without the cultural barriers. And the dull throbbing inside him turned into a stab of pain as he remembered: he was no longer qualified to claim that his understanding of Saren was superior to anyone else's.

"He believes that every individual must earn their place in society," he resumed at last. "That is, by the way, one of the core values of turian culture. Unlike the other species in Citadel space, the humans are acting like they have... a birthright, I suppose. Like the very fact that you're here makes you deserving of respect and worthy of trust. Most turians take issue with that attitude, not only Saren."

He was half expecting Williams to interrupt him, but she didn't open her mouth before he finished, and then Alenko spoke instead.

"Okay," he said. "That makes sense. But you can't deny that the Council has been treating us with a double standard. They don't mind us colonizing the Terminus and the Verge because it suits them: they get to expand, and don't have to risk a thing. When our colonies are attacked, they can turn a blind eye and make up for it later by letting us tap into the development funds, but–"

"Oh god," Williams cut in. "I know that look."

Nihlus blinked. "What look?"

"It's-your-own-damn-fault look. It's how Councilor Sparatus looks whenever he speaks about humans on the net. He hates us too."

"Not true. Sparatus is a practical man before anything else. Of the Three, he's the most likely to recognize the potential of your people." He paused to study her expression. "Fine... don't believe me." I don't care to defend _him_. He turned back to Alenko. "You're right. So what? They get their influence, you get your worlds, and everyone's happy."

"Everyone except those dead colonists," Shepard said, landing her elbows on the table and making the assembly of weapon parts jump with a loud clang. "A minor detail you keep forgetting."

Williams chose that moment to quit her balancing act, as if to underline Shepard's point. Nihlus winced. "I haven't forgotten."

Shepard raised her eyebrows in suspicion, as if challenging him to defend that statement with more zeal, but even though he wanted her to believe him, all he could do was shake his head. _I haven't._ He hasn't. Especially the _impaled_ dead colonists. Spirits. He didn't have it in him to talk about that now. Politics and space weather would do just fine for off-duty chatting, thank you very much.

Finally she relaxed back into her chair and started pushing random pistol parts around. The tension was slow to dissipate in the silence, but at last Alenko yawned and stood up.

"Yeah," said Williams, standing up as well and stretching. "We should go."

Alenko paused on the way out, however, and reached between Nihlus and Shepard for the disassembled Kessler. He pushed his fifth finger into the empty heat sink slot and appeared to feel for something inside with an expression of profound concentration. There was a tiny click. He took the stubborn mod then and slammed it into the slot with a lot more force than was generally recommended. Brutal, but apparently effective. Shepard's face lit up like a mass relay as she took the pistol back from him, but was quickly eclipsed by a dark realization.

"You son of a bitch. You watched me toil over that the whole evening!"

Alenko curled his pale lips in a small smirk. "Goodnight, Commander. Spectre."

Nihlus watched Shepard reassemble the pistol, then turn it on. It sounded healthy, and the status indicator turned from red to yellow to green without so much as a stutter. "Son of a bitch," she repeated, examining the weapon and grinning in disbelief.

They sat in silence, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Quite the opposite. Nihlus turned off the datapad he'd been holding the entire time; he wasn't going to get any work done, tired and nervous as he was. Shepard was watching him, and at last she said:

"So how come _you_ like humans?"

The million credit question. One he'd been asked too many times over the years and still had no answer to. He rolled his head back, staring into the white panels on the low ceiling. "I guess you could say that I'm about as far from a typical turian as you are from a typical human."

"I wouldn't know a typical turian if he pissed in my soup."

Nihlus laughed. "You're a real piece of work, Shepard. I ought to write these down."

She smirked in response and fell silent. Then, after a while: "Would you say that Garrus is a typical turian?"

Interesting. He peered into her, trying to guess the subtext. She was careful to maintain a politely disinterested expression: making small-talk, nothing important. But there was a certain glint in her eye. Unutterable expectations. Nihlus smiled.

"Are you asking me if _he_ likes humans?"

She was running a finger up and down the barrel of the Kessler. "Does he?"

"I've no clue."

"Come on. You're friends."

Nihlus snorted. Is that what we are? Shit. It seemed like there was nothing he could talk about without risking to expose some dirty little secret. Suddenly it was all just too much. A change of topic was in order.

"How come you know so little about turians? You didn't get all those decorations by pushing papers somewhere on Earth."

"I don't know," she shrugged. "It's not like I've never met any. I even worked with some. Just never _talked_ to a turian before. You know? Like this."

He flicked his mandibles. "How about we do more than talking?"

She became very still, and then cocked her head to the side. "Like what?"

Nihlus got up and stretched, amused to see how easy it was to confuse her. "I could really blow off some steam." And with that, he started to undo the jacket of his fatigues.

Shepard blushed fiercely, and he thought it made her pretty. It also made him feel guilty for pulling her leg. When he added, "In the gym," her face turned dark with outrage and he couldn't hold back the laughter. She launched herself at him over the table and landed a mock blow to his midsection.

"Asshole."

"An asshole would've waited for you to say, oh yes, please, sir, show me your big–"

She didn't really wind him with the second punch, but he doubled over, laughing hard. When he looked up, slightly breathless, he found her wearing a thoughtful smile.

"What?" he said.

"Nothing. Good to see you laugh again, is all."


	20. Sanctum

#

* * *

><p><strong>Sanctum<strong>

_One hour before the attack on Therum._

"Left or right?"

Dolneon's impatient voice echoed rudely in the ancient hallway and Liara winced.

"Hush," she said. "I need a moment."

Everybody stilled. She looked around, chasing the patches illuminated by their flashlights, moving about at random. These floors had not been walked for more than fifty thousand years. These walls had not seen light since the Exodus. The last creatures to breathe this air had been living Protheans. Goddess!

The notion made her dizzy. Or perhaps it was the air, thick and heavy with underground fumes. And, Liara thought, with memories as well. She stepped forward, leaving footprints in the millennial dust, and touched the far wall. Cold and featureless under her fingers. She waited, but it had nothing to share. And it was the same in every direction.

"Right," she said.

One by one, they stepped in, curious and careful. The padding of their feet, their sighs and whispers soon filled the hallway, and the feeling that they were committing some sort of heresy began to wane. She walked at the rear of the group as they ventured farther. Dolneon had brought three students with him: a tall turian woman named Nimui, with facial markings painted in a nice shade of violet; an asari young even by Liara's standards, named Ilena, who seemed to be markedly uncomfortable most of the time; and, curiously, a human named Ronald, proportioned like a volus, but wearing an attractive aura of quiet confidence. They all looked eager, if not exactly used to field work. Fascinated, yet uncertain, perpetually gaping around and worrying that one wrong move would crash the entire dig atop their heads. But there was passion in their glittering eyes, and Liara was reminded of a time when she had been as wide-eyed and slack-jawed. When she had been absorbed in her work to the exclusion of everything else.

Oh yes. Dealing with interstellar bureaucracy and managing a project of this scope had changed her outlook during the past few years. And now other things were on her mind. Grim thoughts and vague fears.

The news about the raid on Eden Prime - news Liara had procured a full day before it had hit the extranet - had made all the senior staff nervous. Some had even picked up their things and left the site, and Dolneon had been one of the few to return after the vacation season. Liara could not blame them. The entire Prothean research community had been feeling the pressure lately. Archeology was not supposed to be a high-risk profession but that was exactly what it was turning into with the ever-increasing rate of raids and robberies. The general public was blissfully uninformed, of course, apart from the growing awareness that even the most insignificant Prothean artifacts had become incredibly valuable. And it took more than that to obtain the sort of financing required to secure the scattered sites effectively, and in a way that would be acceptable for all the involved parties. For it would surely be unthinkable to bring a team of human mercenaries to a turian world, or, Goddess forbid, a team of krogan mercenaries to a salarian world. Yet neither the Council nor the Systems Alliance seemed prepared to supply their own troops in the interest of keeping the field - and the people working in it - alive.

Perhaps it had been cruel of Liara to hope that this would change after Eden Prime, but nothing seemed to come out of it. The humans working in the mines seemed largely unconcerned, and the representative of EAE nodded sympathetically to Liara's heated explanations and risk projections, but did not make even a token effort to increase security. Rotten bastard. Since day one, he had been sabotaging every effort the research team had made to find support with the colony authorities, and more importantly, their pleads for more _time_ before the Company defiled the entire site. _Humans are greedy_, Mother whispered from the well of memory. Also impatient and disrespectful, and altogether foolish, Liara added silently.

_Mother. _The thought brought about a vague anxiety rather than the familiar resentment. Nobody had heard from her in a long time, and while Liara certainly did not _miss_ her, the idea that she was out of reach was unsettling. Liara had been trying to get information on her current location and intentions for several weeks now. She had even stooped as low as to offer some of the discoveries her team had made here to none other than the infamous Shadow Broker, in trade, but it had all been in vain. There was simply nothing to be had. That most of Mother's faithful flock had picked up and left Thessia with her was a well-known fact, but after the Parnitha relay their trail went cold as quickly and surely as the dark side of an airless moon. Surrounded by her followers, it was doubtful she would find herself in danger, but still. It was unlike Mother to... disappear.

"Dr T'Soni?" Nimui said. "We've reached the circular chamber."

That got her attention. The circular chamber was the largest intact structure their scans had revealed on the site, and it had featured prominently in the two major project proposals that kept the excavation running. Finding a safe way inside had been the focus of Liara's work for almost two years. Because those same scans made it clear from the very beginning that one wrong step could easily cost them not only the entire site, but their lives as well. The dig was sitting right on top of a fault line, and once the risks of destabilizing it had been calculated, even the greedy humans had stopped digging deeper than was strictly necessary. They had been expanding their operations laterally instead, leaving Liara and her colleagues to uncover the buried treasures armed with hardly anything but soft brushes and patience. Lots of patience.

But it was well worth it. If not for the distracting restlessness that had gotten under everyone's skin after Eden Prime, they would have been celebrating this breakthrough. And we will, Liara decided, stepping between them. She could almost smell the excitement in their shallow breathing, hear it in the reverent silence. Her heart was beating loudly and she swallowed, then turned on the flashlight on her omni.

The light-cone ignited the dust they had disturbed after thousands of years. It was dancing in the beam like snow drifting in a fickle winter breeze, caressing the ancient structures inside. Structures? Liara took a step forward, shining her light on the wide column in the center of the room, running from floor to ceiling and concealing the far side from them. The way to the left was closed off by a veritable mountain of rubble. Yes, yes, they had seen it in the scans. But the preliminary analysis of the composition indicated materials alien to Therum, similar to the reinforced stone the Protheans used for some classes of buildings elsewhere, so it was probably removable. To the right, the tiled wall from the hallway continued in an elegant curve.

While she had been looking around, the others had stepped in as well. Dolneon was doing a spectral analysis on the rubble, and Ronald seemed to be filming. Liara absently smiled. They could have brought a hover-cam. Nimui went over to the central column, and after glancing at Liara, Ilena joined her.

"It stands out, does it not?" Liara said, and the students turned to her. She indicated the column with her chin. "I have seen such architecture at other sites. It is not made of stone."

"It feels metallic," Nimui offered. She was tapping her talontips on it, producing a faint clinking. Liara nodded. But then Ilena placed a hand on the column and snatched it back with a start that made everyone jump.

"What?" said Liara.

"It's warm!"

"It can't be," Dolneon said, his huge eyes blinking rapidly. He stepped forward, taking off a glove before reaching to touch the column himself. Liara bit her lip. If it was warm, it could only mean that... "It's still powered."

They all stood still for several beats, exchanging nervous glances, and then everyone moved at the same time. Ronald and Liara stepped forward to feel the column as well, Dolneon moved back and brought up a menagerie of holos, looking for EM and ME activity. Ilena maneuvered to position herself behind Liara; even in the weak light, her pallor was apparent. She had taken a good fright there. Nimui, on the other hand, seemed captivated, and pressed a cheek against the column for a moment, as if to listen to it.

It _was_ warm to the touch. Liara allowed herself a taste of the excitement she had been holding back on account of being a senior scientist on the site. Goddess! Working Prothean technology!

That gave her an idea.

"Kill the lights," she said.

Everyone froze, looking at her, but nobody moved to do as she had said. So much for being a senior scientist on the site.

"Turn off your flashlights for a moment? I want to check something."

Finally they turned their lights off.

"The omni too, Dolneon."

"Sorry," he said, collapsing his holos and clearing his throat. "So. What are we looking at?"

"Give it a moment," Liara whispered. "While our eyes adjust."

The darkness was so complete that for many seconds she was not sure if her eyes were open at all, and despite the historical significance of the situation, she could not resist the urge to wave an invisible hand just in front of her nose, childishly. Almost a whole minute passed before Dolneon gasped, and Liara smiled even though it took her a few more breaths to catch it herself.

Tiny green lights traveled over the column in narrow streams, forming geometrical patterns of astonishing complexity and undeniable beauty. When she tried to swallow she found her mouth was dry with dust. Her eyes were wet with tears of elation. She blinked them away, stifling an excited giggle. She had never been to Mars, but she had seen some footage, obtained at a great price, of the working Prothean data core the humans had uncovered. It looked... just like this. And now she had her own. Goddess!

"Goddess," Ilena voiced. "What _is_ that?"

"Status indicators of some kind," Ronald offered. "I've seen things like this on Mars."

Liara snorted. Sure you have; right after signing the infamous "Martian Archives" non-disclosure agreement, rumored to have more restrictions than the Council Act on Genetic Engineering and all its amendments together. Not that she was jealous. Not at all.

"Let us see what's inside," she said, turning the light back on. Their footsteps filled the room with echoes and their lights painted everything with a silver sheen that made the inner wall look as inanimate as ever. It ended at an elegant arch leading into the sanctum. Another circular room, also quite empty, save for the strangely intricate carving on the floor - and the thing standing erect in the very center.

"Liara?" Dolneon gasped. "Do you see what I see?"

"Yes," she whispered. This time she did not need to tell them: all of them turned their lights off, and after a second of electrified silence, they saw the network of green lights outlining the miniature replica of the Citadel Tower. "It's a beacon," she said, and then laughed. "It's a powered beacon!" She turned to the students, marginally aware of how futile it was, in the pitch black darkness. "Do you realize what this means?"

"Well," Ronald started after a few awkward seconds, "we know that the beacons were a part of an Empire-wide communication network."

"Supposedly independent of the mass relays, if you're to believe the speculation of V'Naro and her group," Nimui continued. "Possibly an experimental new technology?"

"And very rare," Ilena concluded, bringing up the most interesting aspect. "Only three recovered so far, in various stages of disintegration. Not a single one functional."

"And all of them in private collections," Dolneon muttered as he brought up his omni, illuminating the sanctum in a spectrum of vivid colors. Liara gave him a questioning glance, but he did not seem eager to continue that line of thought. What he left unsaid was that two of these private collections had been robbed in the last year.

Liara turned to look at her discovery. She covered her flushed cheeks with ice-cold fingers, trying to absorb the unbelievable significance of what they had stumbled upon. A find like this had the potential to change not only the face of all Prothean research, but maybe the face of galactic society. Instantaneous communication! Instantaneous _telephatic_ communication! Which would give her people another convenient advantage over the other space-faring races, but that was a concern for another day. Liara had no doubt in neither _instantaneous_ nor _telepathic_. V'Naro was well-respected, though her insistence on traditional - some would say, outdated - methods had made her less than popular with the younger generation of researchers. But Liara had been brought up to respect tradition, and she had never thought V'Naro's work was speculative or sensationalistic. At the time _she_ had been a stuttering graduate, securing a place on V'Naro's team had been her most cherished dream. Yet here she was now, making a discovery _V'Naro_ could only dream of.

She could almost _hear_ the beacon. Whispering promises of delightful revelations. She could barely keep herself from approaching and touching it, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that she was not the only one. Ilena was walking towards it as if hypnotized.

"Do not go near," Liara warned. Her voice rang between the metallic walls almost hurtfully.

Ilena froze, then gave an apologetic smile. "I wasn't going to-"

"It might be dangerous." Liara cleared her throat to intone in her best stern-teacher voice: "Nobody goes near the artifact, or, Goddess forbid, touches it. Understood? We do not need another barrier incident."

Dolneon chuckled, and the students murmured reluctant acknowledgment. They did not ask what the 'barrier incident' was; either they were too excited by the matter at hand, or they had already heard of it from Dolneon, who still seemed to think it was very funny. Of course, Liara had been the perpetrator. With her luck, it would become one of those undying anecdotes retold to countless generations of young archaeologists.

Farther down the room, Ronald had started filming again. This time, Liara did not smile, but made a mental note instead. He would likely be signing a new non-disclosure agreement, and very soon. _Therum Archives_. Liara chuckled.

"Aaaand, it's official," Dolneon announced. "This entire room is powered by a functional-"

"What was that?" Nimui said, and the alarm in her powerful voice was more than enough to make everyone shut up in an instant. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" said Ronald, speaking for them all.

Liara could not hear a thing, except her own nervous heartbeat. But Nimui raised a hand to cut off any further questions. Her face assumed an expression of studious concentration, amber eyes slashing this way and that, but obviously looking _elsewhere_. Then her mandibles started flicking in a way that could not be mistaken for anything other than fear.

"Gunfire."


	21. Heads or Tails

#

* * *

><p><strong>Heads or Tails<strong>

_Two hours before the attack on Therum._

Shepard hated Therum long before she laid eyes on the desolate, maroon disk through the open viewports in the bridge. There was a nearly imperceptible tug in her gut as the Normandy fired the last thruster sequence to put them in orbit. The engines wound down, and time seemed to halt in the motionless silence.

And then, despite all her efforts, it started going backwards.

#

A week back.

Crimson dawn on Eden Prime. One man lost, one man gained. The air trembles with the unbearable rumble of mass effect engines and the monstrous geth ship ascends above the bloody clouds. Then the dead rise. Half human, half machine, mindless, but murderous. Fluorescent oils spill instead of blood. Alenko lights up like a Christmas tree and the collateral biotic field penetrates her dormant nodules. An itch that can never be scratched, deep beneath her overworked muscles, it forks like lightning and sets her mind and body ablaze.

A month back.

Last night on the Trafalgar. She's as drunk as everybody else after the farewell party. Maybe more, if the swaying decks are any indication, but not drunk enough to hallucinate. Still, when the door to the cabin she's been sharing with First Lieutenant Humfrey "Ham" Norton opens and the rush of stale, warm air from inside brings with it the unmistakable sticky beat of skin against sweaty skin broken only by occasional throaty grunts of Private William Riley who is taking it from behind like a champ, on all fours, right there on the floor - the first thing through her mind is that she's passed out somewhere and is having some kind of fucked-up lucid dream. They stop and turn in the direction of her slack-jawed figure. Riley is wearing a drunken, blissful expression, and Ham _smiles_ at her before finishing them both off in four savage thrusts. She can't look at them. She can't look away. The heat in her face _burns_ her cheeks and that's what sobers her up enough to close the door before awkwardness ensues.

A year back.

The bowels of the decommissioned turian dreadnought Eleutheria: no light, no gravity, no sounds other than the heavy hammering of her mag-boots and the rustle of her breath, confined to the vacuum-sealed helmet. Captain Anderson, in command of a special N7 detachment running this gig, is walking next to her and the beams of their flashlights intersect every so often. She's taken a good look at him before they were deployed. The youngest graduate of the N7 program, a veteran of the First Contact War, and if the rumors were true, friends with the new Ambassador on the Citadel. Shepard wants to make an impression. And when rounds start flying, she gets her chance. As usual, all the carefully laid plans go to shit faster than she can say _oh fuck,_ and they find themselves hopelessly outnumbered and nearly surrounded. Shepard pulls the decoy trick; they fool the bastards into believing there are three more squads moving to surround _them_, and use their attempts to out-flank the false-positives on their combat scanners to plant the bomb and get the fuck out of there without a single casualty.

Two years back.

First time on the Citadel. It fails to impress her, but Nihlus does not. After the interview, she pops a medigel to patch her palms. One of those horrible moments in a faceless, nameless and genderless restroom, when you look in the mirror and realize you have no idea who the fuck you are and what the fuck you're doing. When you feel like you're watching yourself through that poorly-disguised security cam on the ceiling. Is that what happened to Kyle? A word surfaces in her memory, one of those fat, many-lettered things her shrink sometimes liked to throw at her like grenades. _Depersonalization_. She frowns at the jello on her hands and washes it off.

Five years back.

Cries and chaos in the tunnels under the parched surface of Torfan. Hot, dark and stuffy, smoke and blood cluttering the standing air. Heavy combat boots drumming over durasteel floors. Gunfire lighting the slave pens, empty, they're empty, thank god they're empty. Until they are not. Dawkins is a goddamn pussy and his hand is shaking as he glues the barrel of his pistol to the forehead of a trembling, kneeling turian. Shepard pushes him aside and administers the shot herself, pulverizing the poor bastard from under the chin upwards. Some of the stuff reaches the light-bulb hanging from the low ceiling and the scene becomes painted in a ghastly azure.

Ten years back.

The shrink's office on Arcturus Station is filled with the smell of dusty old paper. He has floor-to-ceiling shelves full of old books and other old things. Among them, one never fails to catch her eye and she often stares at it while they talk. It's a small water-pipe, seemingly fashioned from a single slab of bluish moon-stone. When the talking gets heavy, its beauty comforts her. And when it gets boring, she fantasizes about seeing the shrink stoned. She'd pay good credits for that.

"You didn't answer my question," he reminds her.

"Hmm? What was the question?"

"Why don't you write to her? Here, do it right now."

There's a _paper writing-pad_ with a _pencil_ in his outstretched hand and her incredulous gaze goes from his eyes to the offering and back to his eyes. She's supposed to be the crazy one here, not he.

"What?" he says. "Don't tell me you can't write."

She snatches the pad from him and the pencil takes flight, all the way to the door, rotating elegantly about a perpendicular axis. Shepard's thoughts promptly fly away with it, to the mechanics behind helicopter suspension and other interesting helicopter-related things: air superiority, surveillance, near-ground missions. By the time she fetches it and sits back, she's forgotten what they were talking about - again.

"Just a few lines," the shrink says patiently. "To tell her you're fine."

Am I? She looks at the water-pipe again. Jo would love that color.

"I'd rather type," she says aloud. The shrink appears to consider it, then nods, and the paper pad is replaced by a data pad. Her heart is drumming strangely. She clenches her teeth and starts typing.

_Dear Jo..._

Twenty years back.

The kitchen in the third or fourth rented apartment she remembers. Daddy is cleaning up after breakfast, and Mommy is ambling around the living room, tidying up. They are talking about something boring that Shepard readily classifies as 'politics' even though hardly a word is actually getting to her ears.

"Can I wash the dishes?" she asks, but they don't hear. Their voices have been rising steadily and now it almost sounds like another fight. Daddy wants to move to one place, and Mommy, to another. It's all the same to Shepard, though the words 'settle down' sound like something she might like.

"I'll be careful," she adds, but it falls on deaf ears. She has something in her hand, and now she studies it. It's a fork. She's standing _right behind_ Daddy. One well placed stab, and...

He screams. "Jesus!"

The incriminating weapon drops on the floor and takes an eternity to settle, making that awful clanking noise that echoes off the naked floor tiles. Mommy comes around from the living room with a pair of intensely green, all-seeing eyes, like search-lights on a moonless night.

"She stabbed me in the butt!" Daddy yells, but there's more disbelief than anger in his tone. "With a fork!"

Mommy looks at Daddy, who's rubbing his skinny behind, then at the glaringly obvious fork on the floor, and at last at Shepard. And bursts into laughter.

#

But only a shadow of a smile ghosted over Shepard's face at the memory. She had gotten a lecture that day. About how sharp things are dangerous and how she shouldn't stab people in the ass with them, even when they are ignoring her. Shepard always hated to be lectured. But she had taken it like the brave little trooper she'd been, even if she had spent the rest of that day pouting.

To comfort her, Daddy had produced the coin. A big one, with Grissom's head on one side and the logo of the Alliance on the other. Little did he know that, when he told her to toss, he was handing her a weapon of mass destruction. One that would obliterate his family. That would desecrate and butcher his wife, shoot him between the eyes while his baby son was being smothered under a pillow, burn his house to the ground, and leave his eldest child with nothing but an old sidearm, a trembling little sister to take care of, and a profound feeling of dark guilt that no amount of therapy could ever erase.

"Heads for Mindoir, tails for Therum," Daddy had said. "You choose."


	22. Gates of Hell

#

* * *

><p><strong>Gates of Hell<strong>

_Two hours before the attack on Therum._

The atmosphere in the mess hall wasn't going to improve Shepard's mood, that was damn sure. She wasn't hungry, either, but she was obliged to attend because there was no telling what would happen otherwise. Following Alenko's advice, she had ordered all the officers to sit at the same table with all the aliens who had suddenly made themselves at home on the Normandy, but she was no longer sure it had been such a brilliant idea. The several meals they had all taken together during the two days of flight from the Citadel had been a study of intercultural screw-ups on so many levels that it was difficult to keep count even without the added angle of being constrained to a seat that granted a direct line of sight into Wrex's mouth. He was sitting at the head of the 'alien' side of the table, to Shepard's far right, and when he noticed human stares, he belched so loudly that the plates shook. Then he started picking his teeth with the three-inch talon of his index finger.

On the other end, to Shepard's far left, Pressly's face was continuously morphing through expressions of discomfort, distrust and disgust. Williams was sitting next to him, occasionally whispering something to his ear, and he was nodding, keeping his gaze firmly locked on one alien or another as if expecting them to erupt into a murderous rampage any moment. That Anderson had chosen to assign Williams to the Normandy for keeps was a surprise Shepard was yet to recover from. Not that she minded; Williams was an experienced Marine and would definitely do better than a replacement, but the situation was tense enough even without another outspoken xenophobe on the ship.

Tali and the turians kept together by necessity of eating the same kind of food, and complaining about it. Not out loud, of course - one thing everybody seemed to agree on was that exchanging suspicious, hand-covered whispers was the most appropriate form of communication at the table. But Shepard could see well enough how Tali was pushing the unidentifiable morsels around her plate, and the faces Vakarian was making upon swallowing his own transcended the inter-species barriers just fine. Nihlus would glance at Shepard every now and then, wrinkling his segmented nose, and she'd respond by stubbornly staring back. Really, Nihlus? Why didn't _you_ think to bring groceries when you invited all your friends over? If not for Alenko's last-minute reaction before leaving the Citadel, there would have been _nothing_ but nutri-paste.

Alenko. She took the opportunity to study him while he was busy eating with the ravenous appetite of a healthy biotic. Most of the time he appeared to be as discontented as everyone else, but she could only guess at his reasons. He didn't have a problem with the aliens; on the contrary, he was among the few humans on board who could talk to their guests without making a fool of themselves. No, it looked like he had a problem with _her_.

Perhaps it was her unorthodox style of command? But the Normandy hadn't spent enough time under Anderson for anyone to be inconvenienced by the change of pace. Perhaps it was her casual behavior. Alenko seemed to revel in military formalism and indeed, never missed a chance to call her sir. Whatever it was, though, it was confined to his calculating stare and occasional fleeting frowns; Shepard had no doubt she could rely on him, and seated as they were, one across the other in the middle of the table, it was like they were standing guard together, keeping the embers from bursting into flames. Keeping things professional.

Williams cleared her throat. "So. Who's going planetside?"

What little chatter there was in the rest of the mess hall died out and the tension between the segregated sides spiked. The Mako could only take four, and one seat was reserved for the asari.

"Nihlus, Wrex, and me," Shepard said, putting her spoon down next to a barely-touched bowl of beans. The decision had been Nihlus' to make: they had agreed beforehand that he'd be in charge of the ground team, but wouldn't interfere with the chain of command on the Normandy. Good thing he hadn't tried to make Shepard stay behind though; that would have ended poorly, because she was in no mood to play games. She had kept her fingers crossed for Garrus as the third, mostly out of curiosity. Of all the aliens, he was the most quiet and reserved. Moreover, it looked like the two turians were ill at ease around each other, which made little sense, given how easy-going and friendly Nihlus was with everyone else. So when he'd chosen Wrex, she'd been a bit disappointed, but certainly not surprised: the three of them made a well-balanced team.

"You sure you can't squeeze another human in, Skipper?"

"If you need some squeezing, just say the word," Wrex replied and chuckled at his own wit. Nihlus' mandibles flared briefly, and Williams made an outraged face, but Tali spoke before the exchange could continue:

"We're not expecting any trouble." She turned from Shepard to Nihlus. "Are we?"

"I'm always expecting trouble," Nihlus said.

Pressly rolled his eyes and snorted, getting up. "If I may be excused?"

Shepard gave him an absent nod. The whole thing was shaping into one hell of a ride.

#

An unfortunate metaphor, she realized while struggling with the impossible controls of the Mako, an hour after going planetside. Almost as soon as they went out and started sweating in the tropical heat that was barely tolerable even within the arcologies, Joker reported spotting a geth dropship lifting off the surface, and a panicked colony official hit the emergency channel to tell them that they had received a distress call from one of the EAE mining outposts near the urban area. And not just any outpost: it was the one where the asari archaeologist and her team were holed up, looking for Prothean ruins. Figures, they all agreed. The Normandy made quick work of the geth ship, then went into stealth mode in case others appeared, while the ground team started the torturous ride to the site.

It was fortunate that neither of her companions was in the mood to comment on her suicidal driving. Complaining was probably below a krogan battle-master, and Nihlus was quiet and distant again. Fearing or _hoping_ that they would find Saren? Shepard wished she could tell. She wished she knew him better because among all these strange new people who had unexpectedly become her team, Nihlus was the one she cared for the most yet, sadly, trusted the least.

She glanced at the combat scanner. "We're almost there," she announced.

"Finally," Wrex mumbled from behind, and Nihlus sat up as straight as the straps allowed, balancing the helmet on his knees.

He turned on his omni. "If I were in their place, I'd set up turrets there," he said and pointed at a narrow passage between two steep rock formations. They would have to go through it.

"You'll have to do the shooting," she said. "My hands are full."

"Yeah. Good thing there was nothing for lunch."

"Whiny son of a-"

Something hit them and Shepard jumped, making the Mako swerve left and nearly into a rock. "Fuck!" she yelled, regaining control. "Shields?"

"Sixty percent," Nihlus said. "Drive straight, damn you, or I'll miss the whole fucking mountain."

"Next time, you'll drive and I'll shoot."

"The way we started, there won't be a next time," said Wrex, and laughed.

The cabin shook, but in a good way, when Nihlus fired the main cannon. "One down," he said, and Shepard envied his calm. Just like on Eden Prime: she was drowning in adrenaline, and he sounded like he was going to a goddamn picnic.

On her right, the combat scanner was showing another turret, and Nihlus took it out with the second shot, but not before it landed another hit on them. "Twenty percent," he said before she could ask. At least this time she didn't allow herself to be surprised and kept the Mako on track.

They emerged into a huge, roughly circular basin with unnaturally smooth, steep sides. Like a fucking pot, she thought, or maybe even said out loud. An enormous tunneling machine, at least ten stories high, was parked on the far end like some slumbering titan. There was a small prefab-settlement around what looked like a mining shaft half way there.

The geth were grouped near the shaft. Their small-caliber weapons were no threat to the thick hull of the Mako and Nihlus downed most of them in one sweep with the machine gun. Shepard drove as close to the entrance as she could; the prospect of staying out in the heat was disheartening, to say the least.

"Gear up," Nihlus said, and they all put on the helmets and sealed suits before jumping out into the misty reddish air.

"Doesn't look good," said Shepard through the intercom, looking around. The prefabs were burning, and there were at least two dozen impaled bodies, grouped in several clusters interconnected with fat cables curling and knotting over the blood-stained ground like snakes.

"What the hell is that?" said Wrex, his voice even raspier and deeper in her earpiece than in person. Good question, she thought grimly, suppressing a nervous shiver. 'Dragon teeth', the men had named them, for who knows what reason. She imagined a winged mechanical monster, spewing fire and lashing its long, segmented tail. A demon that would fit this place all too perfectly.

"The geth inject the bodies with something," Nihlus started to explain as they fanned out to look for survivors. Not that Shepard had much hope. It looked about the same as the dig on Eden Prime: deserted, dead, defiled. "I'm guessing, some nano-probes that multiply and grow various cybernetic replacements and enhancements..."

His voice faded away, and Shepard shook her head in the privacy of her helmet. She'd done some digging of her own. On Saren, among other things. He had so many cybernetic grafts that he could barely be called turian anymore, and some of them looked eerily similar to the things eating the corpses from within. Poor people, Shepard thought, and tried to swallow back a tide of anger and hatred. She was better than that. Better than Anderson. She had to be. But right now, the only thing she could focus on was stringing a prayer together from heated promises of retaliation. Protheans and Reapers and visions aside: for this, for these people, _her people_, dammit - for this she would have Saren's head, and if it meant taking Nihlus down with him, then that was what she was going to do, so help her God.

"No survivors on my scanner," Nihlus announced. "We should burn this place before we go in. I don't want nasty surprises waiting for us on the way back."

They ended up rigging the entire settlement. And as the flames licked up the prefabs, blazing and dancing in the dry desert winds, Shepard thought that this pot-like basin with its walls of red rock was the closest thing to the pits of hell she was likely to see with living eyes.


	23. Into the Pit

#

* * *

><p><strong>Into the Pit<strong>

Daylight, reddened by the pyre, faded quickly as they descended into the mine. Nihlus kept a wary eye on Shepard. She was pulled taut. He could see it in the way she jumped at every sound, hear it in her dry voice and her clipped, monosyllabic responses. If it were anyone else, he'd write it off as edginess before a fight. But he had seen her prepare for deployment on Eden Prime. Shepard was the type to feel the pressure _after_ a mission, not before.

Nihlus was the type too. Countless runs just like this one flashed before his mind's eye in an instant. Some were relevant. Like when his platoon had been sent to rescue an engineering team babysitting seven fucking _tons_ of freshly refined eezo from an orbital mining station that had had a close encounter with an asteroid. Most of the survivors had been evacuated immediately after the accident, but the unfortunate engineers had been ordered to part with their treasure no sooner than with their lives. Nihlus remembered pitch black corridors and petrified corpses floating in airless zero-g, and how running in mag-boots had been no fun at all. Near the end they had witnessed entire sections breaking off. Rooms and hallways torn in two, naked fuselage bending and twisting in that creepy, unnatural silence of hard vacuum, with all the mundane artifacts of day-to-day life flying out to be consumed by the vastness of space like flocks of startled birds disappearing into the night sky.

That had been one of his first deployments. He had been wet behind the crest but he'd kept his cool even when some of the veterans started to sweat. Lieutenant Neis had wanted to promote him for going back to fetch a pair of lost crewmen after they had been ordered to retreat, but the Captain had been one of those 'good turians' who didn't appreciate cocky young upstarts with tempers and accents climbing through the ranks. And _that_ had done what the disintegrating station, falling apart under his feet, hadn't managed to do: it had made Nihlus edgy.

He was sure there was something personal in it for Shepard.

Just like there was something personal in it for _him_.

Sudden anxiety gripped him by the throat and he swallowed. Oh yes. He too jumped at every sound, but - Spirits forgive him - it had nothing to do with the dead humans outside, or even the frightening notion that a second attack on a human colony could mean a full-out war with the geth.

He had tried imagining what it would be like to meet Saren again, now that the cards had been laid down. What he would say, what he would be told in reply.

_How long have you been lying to me?_

Yes, that would be a sensible thing to ask. Only Nihlus wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer. There was a part of him, a small, secret part of him that still didn't believe this was happening, even now, on the way to arrest him.

_Arrest him._ Nihlus snorted. _He'd never allow himself to be taken alive._

They encountered resistance near the elevators. Nihlus went through the motions. Roll, fire, take cover. Wait for the shields to recharge, pick another target. It was just the geth. Many, but _alone_. They had prepared a position at the mouth of the access tunnel, improvising with various pieces of mining equipment. A couple of well-aimed grenades and there was nothing left of it but scraps, wires, and synthetic limbs twitching among the scattered flames. Nihlus paused to study a geth arm, severed at the shoulder, oozing an oily, fluorescent liquid. The design was eerily familiar.

It was impossible not to remember the dreadful moment when he'd seen Saren's artificial arm for the first time. It took him no effort whatsoever to recall the shock, and not because of the scale and the crude, robotic appearance of the prosthesis. A hack, and not a particularly good one; field-work to save his life with no thought spared to either looks or comfort. But Nihlus didn't care for looks or comfort no more that Saren did. He had been shocked because he'd had _no idea_. Saren had told him there had been an injury but he had made it sound like no more than a broken talon. He'd have kept it quiet for who knows how long if Nihlus hadn't insisted on seeing him. Fucking idiot.

Nihlus ran a hand over his face. Spirits. Just thinking about it...

"Think we got them all?" said Shepard, waking him from his reverie.

He cleared his throat. "Depends on how many fit in a dropship."

"Twenty. Same size as a standard transport."

"Make that fifty," Wrex murmured. He was walking around, destroying the few units that were still moving in an almost casual manner. "They don't need much room. Pack up like cheap furniture."

"Since when are you a geth expert?"

"Since you two had the wit to bring a quarian along but didn't think to sit down and question her about them."

"Ha," Nihlus said, but that was all he had. Bottom line, Wrex was right. The quarian was Garrus' concern, and perhaps Garrus _had_ talked to her about the geth, but of course Nihlus hadn't been talking to Garrus. Explaining this to Wrex would likely result in loud and undisguised contempt. The thought was almost enough to make Nihlus smile.

Shepard had been busy with the elevator controls. She waved them over. Nilhlus leaned over the railing to glance down the shaft. A bottomless pit, dotted with strings of twinkling lights. The excavation was hidden by a veil of dusty darkness.

"It will take us forever to get down there," he said.

"Not with the safeties off."

He looked up and met her dirty little smile. Not the first operative in his acquaintance to acquire a sense of humor in the midst of combat. And as they stepped inside the cabin, bracing themselves for what Nihlus hoped wouldn't be free-fall, Wrex elbowed him in the ribs and grinned:

"I like this human."

#

The fight at the bottom had been chaotic but brief and the sudden silence settled around them like black fog. Nihlus was breathing heavily. Only now did he notice how heavy the air had become, how grainy and opaque with dust. He gestured a silent question at Shepard: there was blood on her neck. But she waved his concern off.

She was like a hurricane in close-quarters combat. They had taken some fire during the ride, from the geth positioned on the platforms running the circumference of the shaft, and that had burned her fuse down. Once they were out of the elevator, she'd moved with such deadly purpose that even Wrex had lagged behind, reduced to covering her furious advance with quick biotic strikes. She'd nearly knocked the head off that last geth with the butt of her rifle, and her triumphant, savage scream was still ringing in Nihlus' ears.

"I don't like it here," Wrex said, looking around. "Smells like a disaster just waiting to happen."

Nihlus had to agree. He had never been so deep under the ground before. Once, he'd spent two months on a submarine, sweeping the bottom of the Forey Ocean on Trelis for the wreckage of a STG frigate that had happened to carry a shitload of highly illegal biotoxin - for science, of course. But that hadn't been too different from living on a space-ship. A million tons of water threatening to crush and drown you was only scarier than hard vacuum threatening to freeze and suffocate you because Nihlus was no better a swimmer than your typical turian.

But this place... this place threatened to bury them alive. He looked up, and for a moment, the inversion made him vaguely nauseous: now the _top_ of the shaft was invisible, enshrouded in dark mists. _It will take us forever to get up there._ Only there were no safeties to cut to shorten _that_ journey.

They jumped off the catwalk and landed on a field of debris outlined by flickering holo-tape. Nihlus became acutely aware that the things crunching under their feet were the remnants of some ancient Prothean structure.

_Graveyard._

Absurd. He dismissed the idea, but not before it had given him shivers. It would be all too easy, with the knowledge that he had, to start thinking of _all_ the Prothean ruins as mass graves. He wasn't superstitious. He didn't really believe this act of disrespect would desecrate the spirit of this place, which could have been no more holy than a public restroom. But the Prothean legacy imprinted into his brain was stirring, working to reassert itself. Horrid flashes started striking him at random, rising above the continuous roiling at the threshold of his awareness, something he'd learned to accomodate. Like a hundred voices whispering all around him. Words and pictures surfaced from the sea of gibberish, reminding him of the sickening hopelessness. A thousand worlds, obliterated; a lonely voice, echoing in millennial silence.

_They cannot be stopped._

He had to pause, close his eyes, try to focus on something, _anything_ else (I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts there they are all standing in a row big ones small ones some as big as your head give them a twist a flick of the wrist) to keep the tide at bay. It almost worked.

"Nihlus?"

"Shepard," he breathed, opening his eyes to find her studying him. He couldn't tell if her frown expressed concern or annoyance, but he had her full attention, and that was all that mattered right now. He leaned to whisper in her ear: "There's another beacon here."

She took a step back. The frown was definitely not friendly. "What? Why do you think so?"

He started to reply, then realized that this sudden certainty - a drive, a tug, an invisible hook lodged in his gut, pulling him _somewhere_ - was far beyond his ability to explain. All he could give her was an apologetic flare of the mandibles. "I've no idea."

"So what do you want to do about it?"

"Do about what?" said Wrex.

"Nothing," said Nihlus after a second, answering both questions. "We move out and keep our eyes open."

#

They found the asari behind a wall of azure light from some sort of mass effect field. She was motionless, suspended in air by ghostly filaments. Although her eyes were wide open, Nihlus wasn't sure she could see them approaching.

But then she spoke. "Can you hear me?"

Her voice was badly distorted and the translator cackled before delivering the question. Nihlus nodded.

"I'm trapped in here and I need help!"

"Liara T'Soni, I presume?"

"Thank the Goddess! I did not think anyone would come looking for me. Listen. This thing I am in is a Prothean security device. I cannot move, so I need you to get me out of it, alright?"

While she was speaking, Shepard had taken a step closer and touched the glowing wall. Nihlus bit back a curse. The same reckless hands-on approach had resulted in having his damn head filled with Prothean laments.

But nothing happened. When it wouldn't give under her hand, she turned to him and shrugged. He gave her a disapproving shake of the head. Waste of time. Shepard wasn't the type to be discouraged by head-shaking.

He turned to the asari again. "There's some kind of a force field in the way."

"It is a Prothean barrier curtain. I knew it would keep me safe from the geth, but when I turned it on, I must have hit the wrong combination again and I was trapped in here. You must get me out, please!"

That sounded too close to hysterical for comfort. Nihlus started to say something soothing, but Shepard cut in.

"Your mother is working with Saren. Whose side are you on?"

She'd spat the name out like something rotten and Nihlus felt his chest expanding with anger. She sounded _just_ like Anderson. He too spoke about _sides_. Since when are we picking _sides_? Nihlus turned to glare at her, but she ignored him, staring at the asari with a lot more hostility than the situation warranted.

"What?" said the asari, her eyes growing even larger. "I am not on anybody's side. I may be Benezia's daughter, but I am nothing like her. I have not spoken to her in months."

"What about Saren? Is he here?"

_Fuck._ The million-credit question.

"No! Not that I know of. What is this? Who are you?"

Nihlus stifled a sigh of relief. _Thank the Spirits._

"So you don't deny you know him?"

"I have met him, yes."

_Figures. _He knew next to nothing about the nature of Saren's relationship with Benezia. Saren called it friendship, but he used the word as shorthand for a lot of things, from inconvenient political arrangements to passionate love affairs. It was one of those subjects they had never spoken about, bound by a silent agreement. If they were lovers, Nihlus preferred to remain uninformed. Just like he'd have preferred to remain uninformed about this whole fucking mess.

"But not recently," the asari hurried to add. "Why should I deny it?

"How did you end up in there?" Nihlus said before Shepard could go on with her interrogation. He put a hand on her elbow. She jerked her arm away and gave him an angry sideways glance, to which he responded in kind.

"I uh... We were exploring the ruins when the geth showed up," the asari said. "We heard shots, and then they were here, in seconds! We did not know what to do. I tried to tell them that it would be safer here, but they wanted to get out... Nimui wanted to fight... I think Dolneon remained on this side, but I have not seen him." She paused to take a shuddering breath. "I do not know what happened to the others. Did you... did you find anyone else?"

"I'm afraid not," Nihlus said, and her chin trembled, face crumpling. Shepard rolled her eyes. He hurried to change the subject. "Any suggestions on how we could help?"

The asari blinked, trying to hold the tears in, and nodded. "The controls are in here with me. You'll have to find a way around the curtain. But be careful."

"Don't worry about us," Nihlus said. He signaled the other two to follow him back to the middle of the shaft where they could speak freely.

"She's not worried about us," Shepard snorted, glancing at the asari over her shoulder. "She's worried about her precious artifacts. I know the type. And I don't believe a word of her story."

"I don't know, Shepard," Wrex murmured. "She looks pretty harmless to me."

"Yeah. 'Pretty' is the keyword. Come on, guys, we talked about this already. She's Benezia's daughter, _and_ a Prothean expert. There's no way she isn't working with them."

"Then why send the geth for her?"

Nihlus shook his head. "We'll have to figure it out later. Let's get her out of that thing and then we'll see."

"But what if she's _working with them_?"

"We'll have to figure it out later," Nihlus repeated, emphasizing each word. He leaned down to look straight into her eyes. "Don't fight me, Shepard."

Her stare was every bit as fiery and defiant as his must have been on all those training missions, all those many times when his ideas on how things should be handled diverged from Saren's. And pulling rank had never worked well with him either. But this was not the time for a debate.

"Hey, kids? Look what I found," Wrex said, interrupting their little battle of wills. He was standing next to a truck-sized mining laser. "I wonder..."

Before they could stop him, he turned the thing on and all hell broke loose. The beam was aimed downward, arm-thick and furiously red, and it made a hole in the floor, blowing up a thick, black cloud of dirt and rubble. He had the good sense to turn it off immediately, but a few minutes of coughing and cursing passed before they could see each other again through the settling dust.

Nihlus was about to give Wrex a lecture but his mouth clicked shut when he saw the lights. There were _lights_ coming through the hole in the floor.

#

They stood in a silent circle, studying the thing from a respectful distance.

"Shit, Nihlus," Shepard whispered. "This looks exactly like the beacon on Eden Prime. How the fuck did you guess?"

He shook his head, at a loss for words. The hook in his gut was wrenching him forward. He curled his fingers into vicious fists, squeezing like a man hanging above an abyss, trying to resist.

And that was when the first tremor shook the ground, followed by a deep rumble, like an approaching thunderstorm.

"I don't like the sound of that," Wrex said. "Come on, kids. Take it or leave it. We can't stay here."

"Right," Nihlus muttered, recognizing the sudden feverish drumming of his heart for the fear he was supposed to be feeling. His body wanted to turn around and get the hell out of there, but his mind was already determined to go through the terrible ordeal again. He just... _had_ to.

Shepard took hold of his arm to stop him. "What are you doing? It almost killed you the last time. We need to get the crew here, load it on the ship..."

"There's no time, Shepard. Wrex is right - this place is going to crash down on our heads, I can feel it."

"Leave it, then, let's just get-"

"No. I have to do this. I have to know."

He yanked his arm free and stepped into the circle. Shepard's curses faded behind like memories of a dream. The beacon and the ancient terminals around it suddenly sprang to life and there was a brief moment of lucid horror before the wave hit him, before that terrifying sensation of being stripped of physicality flooded his senses. Unable to speak or move or _breathe_, he lost all notions of space and time and his mind was thrown into a whirlpool of alien thoughts and desires, a lonely particle hurling on a ballistic trajectory to the unknowable _thing_ that resided inside the well. Nauseating, exhilarating and most of all, horrifying, the sensation of whirling out of control, carried on a torrent of words from a language lost long before the dawn of his species, threatened to rip his mind to shreds. Ideas and images rained on him, like before, only now they seemed less random, at moments even recognizable, like pieces of a giant puzzle falling in place, and even though he had never seen the whole picture, there were recognizable sequences, notions and processes stitching together behind his tightly-shut eyes.

It ended as abruptly as it had begun and he dropped to the floor, limp and numb, barely conscious. Shepard and Wrex hovered above him, speaking, but he didn't understand a word and could only keep blinking, trying to smile in order to let them know that he was okay. Though he wasn't. When they lifted him up, he thought he would vomit, but, fortunately, he had eaten hardly anything for lunch. Sorry, Shepard. The food on the Normandy is really _that_ awful.

Wrex half-walked, half-carried him into the light of the asari's blue prison. The ground was trembling, or perhaps he was? He could stand now, but everything was blurry and the sounds were strangely muted. Somebody shouted, _hit that large button!_ And he did. The next thing he knew, the asari was walking right into his face, growing in his vision like a balloon animal, her huge eyes threatening to swallow him. She hugged him. Almost toppled him. He tried to explain that he had done absolutely nothing to deserve her gratitude, but she wouldn't listen, or perhaps the speech remained confined to his head.

There was more shaking. Rumbling more readily felt than heard. Something about the dig being unstable and the mining laser. Well done, Wrex, well done indeed. Worse than Shepard. Just had to try the damn thing, didn't you? But then that same krogan summoned a biotic bubble to keep the rubble from killing them and he concluded that the 'Prothean barrier curtain' had _nothing_ on the beauty of a living field. Had he ever told Saren how much he envied and admired his biotics? He should have. He should have told him a great many things.

Daylight, dust and sand pouring through cracks on the ceiling of the access tunnel. How had they gotten there? He coughed, a lot, and ended up vomiting after all. Shepard held him, one hand around his back, the other supporting his sweaty forehead. The asari shouting,_ we have to move on!_ And Shepard snapping, _hold your horses, princess_. He tried to laugh, but it wasn't working. There was hardly any air. He could barely see a thing.

And then they were speeding. Shepard behind the wheel again. His stomach, lurching with every insane maneuver she was pulling to get them away from what he supposed was a full-on volcanic eruption.

Violet tears on the face of the beautiful asari. _Lost_, her lips said. _All gone._

The Prothean ghosts in his head silently agreed.


	24. Out of the Frying Pan

#

* * *

><p><strong>Out of the Frying Pan<strong>

Liara's life flashed in front of her. Before, she had thought that no more than a convenient phrase. Something polite to say while avoiding the generally uncomfortable subject of _regrets_.

Perhaps because she had never been truly afraid _for_ her life before. Not a very accomplished life. Not as filled with memories of exotic places, exciting people, heart-breaking love affairs and adventures as the lives of those few people she had come to admire. All the more reason to cling to it. Save it. Live! Live to see those places and meet those people and have her heart broken and her body taken and experience _something_ worth admiration. For what had flashed in front of her was not a selection of precious moments or the faces of loved ones, but a summary of her recent research results.

Disgusted, she glanced at the strangers riding with her in the vehicle: a crazed-looking human woman behind the wheel, a mostly unconscious, vaguely familiar turian in the back seat with Liara, and a krogan who was yawning despite the fact that they were speeding right into the black smoke and lava boiling out of a _huge crack in the ground._

Liara recommended her soul to the Goddess - not for the first time today - and closed her eyes.

But instead of horrible pain, burning and choking, she felt sudden acceleration pressing her back into the seat. She peeked, to see the human pulling the wheel back and down with a feral groan. There was a moment of weightless floating, and then the vehicle hit the ground again. Liara's head slammed against the hard roof, and then her bottom slammed against the edge of the seat - which was only slightly less hard - on the way down. The turian next to her bounced up and down as well, head lolling and limbs settling at odd angles. Like a dead thing.

For a moment, Liara forgot her discomfort. She glanced at the two mismatched figures in the front, and met the human's disturbing stare in the rearview mirror.

"Make sure he's okay," the human commanded. Her voice was dry, raspy, and loaded with such authority that Liara did not even consider questioning the order.

It was not a trivial task to sit the turian upright in the lurching vehicle. His combat suit was cold and hard under her fingers, his arms limp and heavy in her hold. Half a minute of struggle passed before she managed to strap him to the seat. She placed three fingers on his neck, sticky with grime and sweat. His pulse was strong. His breathing, regular.

"He seems to be fi-"

Another bump on the ground made her rebound between the roof and the seat again, only this time, her right breast landed hard on the turian's armored shoulder. She bit her tongue, tears of sharp pain trickling from the corners of her eyes.

"You can slow down now, Shepard," said the krogan.

"Don't tell me what to do," the human snapped in reply.

Liara blinked the haze away and looked through the front viewport. A rusty Therum landscape that looked the same in all directions. It was impossible to tell if the ground beneath them was still shaking or not. There was a wireframe map of the area on the navigation console; Liara could not make out the various labels in tiny human script, but the glowing red circle, marking a zone that they had just cleared, required no interpretation.

She buckled up and let out a shuddery sigh of relief. "Where are we going?"

"To the rendezvous point," the human said, as if it were common knowledge. The tone made Liara sink back into her seat without another word. She could not place the insignia on the human's armor, and the other two wore none. Although they certainly appeared to be military, it did not seem like they were a part of a regular unit. More like a band of mercenaries.

A new surge of adrenaline washed over her, driving cold sweat out of all her pores. She could not remember the reasoning behind the assumption that they had come to _rescue_ her. What if they had _kidnapped_ her instead? What if...

Just as she gathered the courage to start asking questions, the krogan spoke again.

"What the hell happened there, Shepard?"

"I should be the one to ask you," the human said. "You were standing right next to him. Why the fuck didn't you stop him?"

Liara could swear that this Shepard sounded more krogan-like than the actual krogan in their company, who merely snorted.

"Easier said than done. He doesn't like being told what to do any more than you do."

A minute passed in silence. With each second, the droning of the engine and the hissing of the suspension system grew louder and more threatening in Liara's ears. _Who are these people?_

"The same thing happened on Eden Prime," the human muttered in the end. "He went near the beacon and it incapacitated him."

"The beacon?"

The human glanced at her again through the rear-view, and Liara regretted speaking.

"Don't act surprised." _Princess._ "It's what you were guarding behind that barrier. What Saren sent his geth for."

"Impossible," Liara said, hoping that she did not sound as frightened as she was feeling. "Nobody knew about the beacon. We only discovered it today."

The human raised a suspicious eyebrow, sending a rush of heat up Liara's cheeks despite the trembling within. She had been called names before (pureblood look at the pureblood) but she had never been called a _liar_.

"Who are you, anyway?" she said. "What right have you to interrogate me? And where are you taking me?"

"I'm with the Alliance," the human said.

"The Alliance has limited jurisdiction over sites registered with AFPPOL. As a Council insti-"

"I'm a Spectre."

"No, you are not. There are no humans in the Spectres yet."

The krogan chuckled, and the human rolled her eyes.

"All right." _Princess._ "_He's_ a Spectre." And she gestured at the unconscious turian.

Liara had already taken a breath to continue her questioning, but the turian shifted, and her gaze snapped to him. He _did_ look familiar, and it was not the superficial resemblance to Councilor Sparatus. She had seen him before. On the extranet? Now that she had the idea, she could almost remember the name. Kyrik? That sounded right. _Could the human be telling the truth?_

By the time she shook off the fascination and remembered her purpose, the anger had evaporated from her overloaded mind. She had never been so exhausted in her life. She had never been _traumatized_ in her life. Mother's voice whispered in her head. _You wanted experience. Was it worth it?_

She swallowed. "Am I... under arrest?"

The human directed a hostile stare at her through the rear-view, but did not answer.

#

It was a relief, to see an actual Alliance space ship at the 'rendezvous point'. The word 'Normandy' was inscribed over the new-looking hull in huge human letters. That put things into context. The Normandy was the first joint turian/human military project, rumored to be packed with top-secret prototype technologies based on discoveries from the Martian Archives. This ship was not only the pride of the Alliance fleet, but also a symbol of the Humanity's readiness to join the larger galactic society. Liara snorted to herself. They were ready all right. To fill the role of the bully.

She was tugged and pulled along with the procession of humans who had emerged to rush the Spectre into the infirmary. Bewildered by the new scenery and so many unfriendly, alien faces, Liara could process only a part of what was being said and done. The woman who had driven them from the dig was obviously in command, barking short, sharp orders, and the men in uniforms moved swiftly in all directions with dry military efficiency. Hundreds of new smells, colors and sounds assaulted her senses and she was almost grateful for someone's strong hand, gripping her by the arm and steering her through a network of dark stairs and passages.

Finally she was shoved through a door and white, overhead light hit her forehead like a hammer. The air was suddenly filled with a high-pitched scent of chemicals that told her they had reached the infirmary. As soon as the Spectre was deposited on a bed, the human ordered that Liara be searched and locked up in the lab, with someone named Alenko standing guard in front until further notice.

#

The lab was better than the brig, she supposed. At least the low humming of the medical equipment and the holo screens popping up at her proximity made for a familiar atmosphere.

She stood at the door for many seconds, trying to enumerate her options. But she was so very tired. _No, Mother,_ she thought._ It was not worth it._ Recent memories started invading her thoughts, mixing with new information and desperate ideas into a dreamlike mishmash of utter nonsense.

Perhaps she should try to contact... who, exactly? The Council? A waste of time: she was being held on the authority of a Council Spectre. The Department? They were no more apt at rescuing... prisoners... hostages... whatever she was now, then volus were at biotics. Unlike this Alenko person. She could feel his field clearly through the door, forceful, hard and unrefined. It was making her spine tingle and running sparks over her skin. He must have taken the order to guard her very seriously, if he was investing all that energy to make sure she did not surprise him. Hah. With what? Spent and stressed out as she was, she probably could not lift a pencil, let alone fight. Her captors... rescuers... whatever they were, obviously considered her a threat. And that Shepard person... who must have done _something_ good to deserve command over the Normandy... she was obviously set upon accusing Liara of being an accomplice in the attacks on human colonies. Accusing her together with Saren and... Mother.

Mother! With some mental gymnastics, Liara could imagine Saren being involved, but Mother? An artist, a philosopher, one of the greatest peacemakers in the history of her people? Ridiculous! Besides, Mother knew she was on Therum and would never allow... but then, Liara _had_ survived, unlike everybody else. The geth... had they _really_ been trying to pass through the barrier curtain? They had amassed there, swarming in front of her frozen, helpless stare, like insects out of a burning hive, shining their cyclopean flashlights in search for something, but had it really been _her_? It had seemed so clear at the time but the specifics were fading already. Perhaps...

Another chain of quivers ran down her back and she finally made a blind step forward. Tried to log into one of the terminals. Of course it did not let her. Suddenly she hated the thing so intensely that she barely kept from smashing the projector into bits with her bare fists. A pair of tears rolled down her cheeks. She heaved a long, heavy sigh, took a seat and lowered her face into her filthy, filthy hands.

#

The sound of the door, opening, woke her up. She jumped, heart beating wildly against her ribcage, and the light chair she had been sitting on fell back with a racket.

"I am sorry," she said, picking it up. "I must have dozed off."

Only when she saw a white-striped turian standing there, watching her with a mildly concerned expression, did she remember where she was. She had woken up thinking she was back in her office on Therum, and now everything came back in a sickening rush.

"You are the Spectre," she said.

The turian nodded. "Nihlus. Nihlus Kryik."

"Kryik."

"I prefer Nihlus."

"That was not... I have heard your name before and... oh, never mind." She looked straight into his eyes. "Am I your prisoner?"

"I need you to answer some questions. Then we'll see."

His voice was soothing and his eyes, friendly. At least the answer was not 'yes'. Liara relaxed a little and sat down again. There was no telling for how long she had slept, but the exhaustion still weighed heavily on her limbs.

"I already told you I had nothing to do with the attack. I do not know how I can prove it with everything destroyed and everyone... gone. And I do not believe for a second that my mother had anything to do with it either. Do you know who she is? Do you know anything about her? It is outrageous, _preposterous_-"

The turian lifted a hand to interrupt her. "I know quite a bit about Matriarch Benezia," he said. "I've met her, twice. She's one hell of a lady."

"So why would you-"

"There's... compelling evidence to implicate both her and Saren in a recent attack on another human colony." He shifted weight from one foot to the other. "I don't know if you've heard about-"

"Eden Prime? Of course I have. It has cast the entire field into a state of near-panic. And for good reasons, I suppose." She swallowed. "What evidence?"

He stared at her for several breaths, silent and motionless apart from nervous twitching of his mandibles. As if waging some argument within. Finally he too sat down, and turned on his omni with a deep sigh. "This was salvaged from a memory core of a dying geth," he said, and played a file.

Saren's voice echoed in the little room. "Set course for Eden Prime. The beacon will bring us one step closer to finding the Conduit."

And then Mother spoke: "And one step closer to the return of the Reapers."

Liara kept looking at the turian's omni, waiting for more, but nothing came. At last she looked at him, and laughed at his solemn expression, although she was anything but cheerful. "What? Is that it? You cannot possibly think that-"

"Saren led the attack on Eden Prime," the turian said. There was more mandible-twitching. "He tried to kill me."

Liara blinked. "Was Mother with him?"

"No. But there's a lot to indicate that they've been working together for almost a year now."

"Working."

"Raiding Prothen sites. Looking for the beacons."

Liara shook her head and started to tell him once more how ridiculous all of this was, especially if that recording was all the evidence he had, but then she suddenly remembered that awful business from... just a bit over a year ago, when Mother actually tried bribing the head of the Department into assigning Liara with a permanent teaching position. Not with credits, of course. Mother was too subtle for that. It had been some political concession or another, and all with the goal of keeping Liara tied up on the University and far away from field work - something Mother had been trying to effect, through less invasive means, for yet another year prior to that shameful event. Liara had never quite recovered from that breach of _everything_, from privacy and her right to make her own decisions, to common decency and even _law_. But in the light of everything she'd learned today, she could not deny that the timing was right. Her thoughts went to the last time she saw Mother, on that terrible dinner in Saren's apartment. To the air of secrecy and their silent communication. And inevitably, to the way she had disappeared with a veritable army of her most dedicated followers.

"It is... extremely difficult to believe this," she said at last.

"Yeah."

The strangely sentimental tone, alive with the vibrating of turian subvocalizations, made Liara arch her eyebrows.

"Saren is an old friend of mine," he explained, then shook his head and his gaze drifted away, searching the floor. "I didn't see it coming any more than you did. I didn't want to believe it either. But I'm afraid it's quite true. Quite real. I had my doubts before what happened today, but it can't have been a coincidence. The only question that remains is - _why_."

"I do not have the answer. Do you believe me?" Please, please, say you believe me. Let _this_ nightmare end, at least.

He deliberated on it for a long time. The silence was excruciating and Liara found it difficult to sit still under his relentless eyes, scanning her for weak spots like a pair of targeting lasers. But she had nothing to hide and she held his stare, awaiting judgment with all the dignity she could muster.

Degree by degree, his expression softened and at last he nodded. "I believe you."

She did not bother trying to hide a huge sigh of relief. "Thank the Goddess. Does that mean I am free to go?"

"I won't stop you," he said. "But it will be safer for you to stay here until this mess is sorted out. And... well. We could use a Prothean expert on board." He swallowed what sounded like a big knot. "I could. I need your help, Dr T'Soni."

"Liara," she said, offering a little smile. It was so much easier to breathe, now that the air was clear of suspicions. Her faculties were returning, bits and pieces from different conversations falling into place. Enough to make an educated guess. "The beacons?"

"Yeah."

She sat back, tasting salt and smoke from her lower lip. Although it had been worded as an appeal, they both knew it was actually an _offer_.

An offer she could not refuse.


	25. Whispers

#

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><p><strong>Whispers<strong>

_Ten hours before the attack on Feros._

"...and then she took her shirt off - just like that - and showed her breasts to me. Can you imagine? I was never so grateful for the mask in my entire life. Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking. It's nothing I haven't seen before, right? Well, wrong. I have never seen anyone _else's_ breasts. Not in person, anyway. I blushed so hard I thought my mask would melt. She does have a very lovely pair of breasts, you know. Round and full, but not heavy. The bruise was really bad, though. A black patch, about the size of my hand. She started crying when she saw it. I told her she was lucky to get out of there alive, but that made her cry even more."

"Drill," Garrus said, and after a moment, he felt the weight of the tool in his outstretched hand. Tali talked a lot, but she was the perfect repair assistant, and today, the Mako deserved the best care available. Garrus had hardly been able to recognize it after the adventures it had had on Therum. It had been shot, burned and hammered; the protective monocarbon layer had peeled off from more than half of its hull and the suspension system had been bleeding its precious eezo-tainted oil in dark rivulets. The deep cobalt of the toxic mixture made Garrus feel a certain kinship with the vehicle. And perhaps just a measure of rivalry.

Despite the Mako's grievous wounds, Garrus envied it. Unlike Garrus, the Mako had seen combat. It had fought to the best of its ability, and protected the lives of its crew at the cost of its own safety and integrity. And what had Garrus been doing? Playing cards with Joker and Alenko.

He tried to loosen his mandibles. Keeping his jaw clenched was giving him a headache and there was still a ton of work to be done. He surveyed the greasy underbelly of the vehicle, encrusted with a layer of reddish dust that made it look rusty. The smells of smoke, burned oil and rubber had already become too familiar to register, but the dust had a sticky sulphuric stench, making the roof of his mouth tingle. He made a mental note to replace the filters on the air-conditioning unit after the repairs were done.

"Where was I?" Tali said. The fact that Garrus had been entrenched under the Mako during the entire length of their 'conversation' didn't bother her any more than the fact that his contribution to it had been limited to naming various items from the workbench she was sitting on, her feet dangling just at the horizon of his vision. "Ah, right," she answered herself. "Liara's breasts. I think she should be grateful to have gotten away with nothing but a bruise. Just look at the poor Mako. You're doing a great job with it, Garrus. I don't know what these people would do without you."

He snorted.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Pliers?"

"Here. I also told her not to take the cold reception to heart. We've all been through _that_. But whenever I mentioned Shepard, she became quiet and dark, somehow."

Tali fell silent. After a few seconds, Garrus stopped what he was doing, wondering if she was expecting feedback. She rarely did. Listening to her was no chore, though. Much as he was loath to admit it, the C-Sec work had made him develop a habit of paying attention to all kinds of trivia related to the personal lives of other people, and Tali's gossip complemented his observations by supplying the famed female perspective. Between the two of them, there were very few secrets on the Normandy.

"And you know what?" said Tali just as he was about to ask for a repair implement he didn't really need. "I think Liara's not the only one. I think half the human crew is afraid of Shepard."

Garrus shrugged. That could work out fine on a turian vessel, but humans seemed to behave a lot better when feeding off of love and admiration rather than fear. Not that it really mattered, as long as everyone did their duty and carried out the orders; Shepard's heavy hand wasn't likely to ever meet resistance in that sense. The ship was new, the crew only beginning to form attachments. In time, their fear would turn into respect, and respect into admiration. And after Shepard had saved their sorry asses from certain devastation a couple of times, they'd start loving her all right. Just like an adopted child learns to love a strict caretaker.

There was a quirk, of course. Shepard wasn't going to spend enough time on the Normandy for all that to happen, because Shepard was going to become a _Spectre_. He shifted to find a more comfortable patch on the perfectly level floor. The inevitable questions bubbled up to the surface of his mind yet again. What did _she_ have, that he didn't? What had _she_ done to deserve the candidacy? He had no doubt that she _did_ deserve it, but it irked him that he was unable to find out _how_. How did she get that ominous nickname, whispered in the hallways with a mixture of dread and awe? Was N7 training comparable to his own? Did she volunteer, or was she recruited?

Nobody knew her well enough to give him the answers. There was Dr. Chakwas, who'd served with her before, but she wasn't spilling. Well, at least not to Garrus. Shepard didn't seem the type to talk about her past or boast of her achievements, nor to make friends among subordinates. Her records were sealed, and not just by the flimsy Alliance security protocols. Garrus had checked. As a Spectre candidate, she was under sovereign jurisdiction of the Council. About as untouchable as Saren himself.

_Fuck. _

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "Phase coupler."

"Just a second... There."

"Thanks."

"Not a problem. Anyway. I'm not afraid of Shepard. I mean, I wouldn't like to get on her bad side, but she's kinder than most other humans here. I don't think I told you... After the debriefing, she called me to her cabin and started asking all these questions about the geth. At first it was kind of trivial. Basic things, you know. Where their data is stored and how they communicate with their network, what happens when a unit is isolated - that sort of thing. But then she started asking about their strategies during the Morning War, deployment patterns, supply lines, airborne units, tunneling machines... I don't even remember all the terms she used. She lost me in minutes. It was... impressive."

"Twelve-point socket wrench."

"After she was done with me, she invited Wrex over. Do you think she'll be doing interviews with everyone, or just the non-humans?"

Probably a rhetorical question, and he mumbled some indeterminate response. A one-on-one with Shepard sounded like an interesting prospect. He wondered what she'd ask him about. Surely not his previous employment, or the status of the repairs. Perhaps she'd ask him about Nihlus. The thought made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin, so he tried to think of something he'd ask Shepard instead. _How can you be sure you're making the right decisions?_

"I wonder how Liara will take that," Tali resumed in a thoughtful tone. "Did you know that she's over a hundred years old? I'd never have guessed. If I _were_ to guess, I'd say she's younger than _me_. It's always difficult to tell with the asari, but she's nothing like the other asari I've met. She's so odd, Garrus. She's been all over the galaxy, and knows so many things, and still she gets so nervous around people, it's funny and sad all at once. Especially around men."

She chuckled, and Garrus paused again. He could tell something awkward was coming.

"Especially around Nihlus," she added, and chuckled some more. "Not surprising, I suppose, since she offered to... you know... meld with him."

The wrench slipped between his fingers and struck him right between the eyes. He cursed.

"Yes," Tali replied, unperturbed. "That was my reaction too. She explained to me that she's hoping the meld will make it easier for him to cope with the Prothean visions, and that experiencing them herself might allow her to come up with some interpretation. But I'm not sure I really understand."

Garrus wasn't sure he really understood it either. The socket had rolled off somewhere under his crest and suddenly he couldn't remember why he'd asked for it in the first place. After a few seconds of silence, he started rattling the fan belt to keep up the appearance of working, but in truth he was just staring at the filthy underside of the Mako, biting his mandible, and thinking. Nihlus had hardly said a word to him since they had taken off from the Citadel. Garrus was fine with that. It was obvious that Nihlus needed some space and since space was in short supply on the Normandy, Garrus had been making an effort to stay out of his way. Because it wasn't difficult to understand a craving for privacy after everything that had happened. It wasn't difficult to understand compartmentalizing. It wasn't difficult to understand that, whatever it was - that _thing_ going on between them - it was anything but one-sided, and this wasn't the time and place to deal with that kind of shit.

But suddenly deciding to 'meld' with a perfect stranger? That wasn't difficult to understand. It was fucking _impossible_.

He blinked at the Mako. "Hand me the torch."

There was a minute of precious silence while he welded, but Tali didn't waste a second after he had finished.

"Do you know if the asari can meld without... you know..."

"Fucking?"

Tali cleared her throat. He could almost _hear_ her blushing. "That," she said.

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to be embarrassed by the the fact that he, a good-looking turian in his prime, with an assortment of interesting experiences under his belt, didn't have a clue whether or not fucking was requisite for melding with an asari, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that it hadn't been just another rhetorical question. A sudden urge to pull out and walk away washed his neck in cold sweat. He needed a minute alone. A minute to think. To make himself get back into a practical mindset. What Nihlus chose to do and where Nihlus chose to invest affection was none of his damned business anyway. Right? Right.

He looked around. "Uh... I think I'm going to need an F-33 matrix."

Which she'd have to go look for in engineering. A brief stab of guilt almost made him retract the request, but he shook it away with a grimace. He was doing _her_ a favor, not the other way around. He had vouched for her, and kept her indiscretion secret, and made it clear to the few troublemakers on board that they shouldn't mess with her unless they wanted their bones rearranged into creative new configurations. But it was getting more difficult to think about it that way with each cycle spent in her company. He'd learned more about geth technology inside the last week than during all his years of poring over Tal'Moret's Principles. Tali's expertise had surpassed all his expectations, and in the rare moments of solitude, when unburdened by the notion that making a show of holding a grudge was somehow good for her, her competence was deeply attractive.

She sighed and hopped down from the workbench, but her footsteps, dragging with more than a hint of boredom, didn't get half way to the elevator before heading back, in company.

Garrus peeked. The standard-issue Alliance boots that stopped next to the workbench were neither large enough to belong to Adams, nor small enough to belong to Shepard. He pulled out from under the Mako.

"Hey, Garrus," said Alenko. "Mind if I go in for a minute?" And he gestured at the Mako with his chin.

Garrus stared at him for a beat, then shrugged. "Be my guest."

So much for his moment of solitude. By the time he got up and wiped his hands on his smeared blue overalls, Alenko had already disappeared inside the vehicle, which was now swaying and bobbing in time with his movement. Garrus looked at Tali, but she just shrugged.

They watched the Mako bounce in silence for a minute before Aleko emerged with a strange expression on his face. He stood motionless, then scratched his head in the universal gesture of confusion.

"What is it?" said Tali.

"You guys haven't seen..." He stopped, rubbed his forehead, looking intensely uncomfortable, which was interesting enough in itself. Both Garrus and Tali were helpfully standing in silence, with their arms crossed over their chests. "You wouldn't know what a tasbih is, would you," Alenko muttered.

Garrus and Tali shook their heads, only slightly out of perfect sync.

"A rosary?" he offered, with the same result. "Prayer beads," he said in the end, clearly getting frustrated.

"Some kind of jewelry?" Tali said.

"No. Well. Kind of? It looks like a small necklace. About this big? Light blue glass beads with... eyes painted on them."

More head shaking ensued, and Alenko's shoulders slouched.

"You think you lost this somewhere on the ship?" Garrus said. Alenko's uncharacteristically irritable behavior had piqued his curiosity.

"Looks like it," Alenko said, but after a second, he shook his head. "It's just... it doesn't make sense. I didn't carry it around in my pocket or anything like that. And I don't... _lose_ things. Never lost a thing in my whole damn life. But it's gone and I thought..." He gestured vaguely at the Mako, or perhaps the entire Normandy. "I don't know."

"Is it valuable?"

Alenko snorted. "Only to me. It's just glass beads on a silver string. Why? You don't think...? You think someone stole it?"

"Hmm. Mmm." Garrus shifted from foot to foot, wheels turning, mandibles working. Could be something. Could be nothing. Scattered words from unrelated conversations, crewmen whispering in the mess hall, secrets told behind bulkheads that were way, way too bare to conform even to the lowest turian standards for acoustic isolation. And one coincidence too many.

"It's not the first time I'm hearing a story like this," he said carefully. "Adams lost something too. A uniform patch with a fortress or a tower on it. He came here to look for it, like you. Said it was in his cabin one day, and gone the next, just like that."

Alenko was nodding. "Yeah, same here. I only took it out of my locker yesterday, while I was digging out that damn teeshirt from the '76 Olympics that Shepard just _had_ to see. I searched my cabin. The bunk, the lockers, every nook and cranny and - nothing!"

His voice had been rising at a steady pace, but he only seemed to realize it once he stopped speaking, and the low drone of the mass effect drive that passed for silence on the Normandy engulfed them. He sighed and lifted a hand to his brow. "Sorry. You know what? If you happen to see it, just bring it back to me, okay?"

Tali and Garrus nodded at the same time and he turned to leave, but Tali spoke before he made the first step. "Kaidan? You're a biotic, right?"

Alenko stopped short and gave her a quizzical look. "Yes?"

"Maybe you know, since it's a biotic thing. Or at least I think it is. Do the asari need to have sex in order to meld?"

He blinked at her, then looked at Garrus with a blank what-the-fuck expression that translated just fine over the racial barriers, and Garrus communicated a don't-look-at-me by lifting his hands in the air with palms out. Which was more than a little hypocritical, since he was curious about the answer as well - but unlike Tali, he would have gone to the extranet for it.

Alenko grimaced, then marched away without another word.

"How rude," Tali muttered after the door of the elevator closed shut behind him. "But you know, now that I think of it, it's been an awfully long time since I've seen my Kaia bracelet. Maybe you remember it. I usually wear it on my upper arm, like this."

Garrus snorted.

"What?"

"Please. You could lose a yahg in your quarters. With all the stuff you keep collecting, I'm surprised the accumulation hasn't started affecting the jump calculations yet."

"Excuse me? The 'stuff' I collect may help us win the war against the geth. Besides, look who's talking. I won't forget that office of yours in a hurry. You had enough material in there to build a scrap-heap dreadnought."

"Yeah, yeah. Very funny."

"Seriously, Garrus. Do you really think there's a thief on board?"

Garrus harrumphed, idly scratching off a patch of burned monocarbon from the hull of the Mako. Just thinking about this shit made him unbelievably tired. So far, the mysterious disappearances of personal objects had been limited to the human crew. Tali's case was far from clear-cut. Wrex came in a monolithic package containing only himself, his armor, and his weapons. If something of _his_ went missing there was no doubt Garrus, and the entire crew, would know about it. Garrus had nothing on him of value, personal or otherwise; and Nihlus...

Nihlus was standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking straight at him. Something about his stance, or perhaps something about his countenance - inviting and challenging, open and resigned at the same time, a man about to take the plunge - reminded Garrus so vividly of their time together on Ganima that despite all rationalizations, a pit opened in his gut.

"Hey, Nihlus," Tali said.

"Hey," he replied, but his stare was pointed at Garrus. A discrete flick of the mandible. _Let's get out of here._

Garrus couldn't help but smirk. He unzipped his overalls and let them pool around his ankles, handing the wrench he'd picked up a minute ago to Tali like a relay baton. "I need a break," he said, intoning an unambiguous message in his undertones. _I've been waiting a long time to hear that._


	26. Just Like Old Times

Note: This chapter was coauthored by Logsig, who also commissioned an amazing illustration for it as a gift for yours truly. Check it out at tinyurl code **ot7csas.**

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><p><strong>Just Like Old Times<strong>

_Nine hours before the attack on Feros._

Garrus followed Nihlus up the service stairs without another word, twitching with nervous energy. When they emerged in the starboard hallway on the crew deck, his heart started pounding. But they walked past the locked door to their shared cabin and moved on towards the mess hall. Dinner, then? His heart rate returned to normal. Almost. The mess was empty, save for a single crewman who followed their march with a suspicious stare. Nihlus took the exit at the aft end. Ah. The gym.

Once there, Garrus relaxed a little. What the hell had he expected? He shook his head, not quite able to suppress a grin.

Nihlus chuckled. "Surprised?"

And then he started taking his clothes off.

Garrus held his breath. _So. Here we are._ For an agonizing moment, he lost touch with immediate reality, floating in an endless sea of possibilities, with myriad scenarios flashing in front of his wide open eyes like a broken holo. There were so many ways this could go, and even though he had spent more time thinking about it than he cared to admit, he found himself paralyzed by indecision. Time slowed, dragging forward at a single-digit frame-rate. Past and future, memories and fantasies, they were all coming together _here_, _now;_ he was as sure of it as he was sure of the sweat breaking through the skin on his lower back. It was hot, getting hotter with each item of clothing Nihlus dropped. Spirits, he was even more gorgeous than Garrus remembered: all corded muscle flexing under dark, glossy skin, every curve and angle of his body intimating effortless strength, radiating a field of force so alluring it was impossible to even _imagine_ escaping it. Still, Garrus lingered on the edge of that potential well, going through his options one last time before falling in.

"Oh, come on," Nihlus said. He gave Garrus a diabolic smile. "You can keep your visor on."

Garrus coughed out a strangled laugh. No - there was no resisting him. The weight of the decision rolled smoothly off his shoulders and he flexed his neck, surveying the situation. The gym was nothing but a glorified storage compartment with a padded floor, a weight-rack and a couple of benches. It smelled like the inside of a boot despite the constant air-filtering that added an annoying buzz at the threshold of hearing to the drone of the Normandy's engines. The lights were dimmed. It was the middle of the day shift, and no one else was there. He waved his omni over the door and the seal turned red.

"That's more like it," Nihlus said. But when Garrus turned around, he was warming up. For _training_.

His face must have looked strange, because Nihlus paused to peer at him. "What?"

Garrus snorted. "Nothing. Too much time spent around humans, that's what." There was no mistaking the direction of Nihlus' stare when he unbuckled his belt and he could almost feel its weight, like a physical touch. _Damn._ "It's been years since I've done this the traditional way."

"Don't worry. I'll go easy on you."

"Mhm." He shrugged off his shirt. After a second, he took off the visor too. "I'm sure you went over my service record, but maybe you skipped the part about..."

"The Legions Cup '76. Qualified for the Imperial Championship in '74. Two wins on Palaven Global, in '71 and '72. And before that..."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You've done your homework."

"Been keeping an eye on you, Vakarian," Nihlus said softly. "I was sad to see you stopped training."

"I never stopped training."

"You stopped competing."

"Disappointed?" He kicked off his pants with more force than necessary. "Join the fucking club."

"Hey," Nihlus said, lifting his hands up in the air. "I'm not judging. I understand better than you think."

"Is that right."

For a second, they stood still, one across another, naked, just breathing. Then Garrus assumed position. Nothing fancy, for starters: the standard hallori opening. Nihlus mirrored his movement. _Perfectly_.

"Well, well."

Nihlus grinned. They went through the first form in unblemished unison. Garrus' body was recalling the moves. He hadn't been entirely honest: he _had_ stopped training in the past several months. Never completely; but his interest in the arts had been waning together with his interest in everything else. And still, it came to him easier than breathing. Nihlus didn't look like he was having trouble following him, either. There was no reason to be surprised by this, but he was. Surprised, curious and all the more excited.

"Do _you_ compete?" he said. They made a textbook transition into the second form. Heart rate was rising.

"No."

Garrus opted for Unaian's Fourth Variation, just to see what Nihlus would do with the spinning backfist combination. His own shoulder made a tiny pop, which they both heard, and Nihlus smirked. "Just some local tournaments, before enlisting."

"You're good."

"I'm better than good." An alternating sequence of strikes avoided by carefully-timed footwork, taking them in an arc from one end of the gym to the other, and finally, contact. Nothing but the forearms, and only for the briefest moment, but Garrus could swear the air crackled with tension.

"I qualified for the Colonial Open in '65," Nihlus resumed. "I was this... scrawny kid. Small but fast. Gave me an edge, you know. Everyone always underestimated me. I could just see them thinking: look at the poor little bastard; one hit and it'll be over. Ha. Before the qualifications, the longest anyone had lasted against me was three minutes, sixty-nine seconds. I always hit them when they weren't expecting it."

As if to illustrate the point, he broke from the pattern with a vicious jab, but Garrus moved back just in time. "Sneaky bugger."

They fell back to the routine without exchanging so much as a wink. Like reading each other's minds. It was amazing. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, sweat beginning to trickle down his neck, a warm knot of anticipation coiling in his gut. It had been a long time since he'd had such a skilled sparring partner. As far back as his short blaze of glory aboard the Aeterna. Seven years. _Spirits._

"The downside, of course," Nihlus continued with a chuckle, a bit out of breath, "was that I had to gain ten kilos to enter the lowest weight class. You know they don't allow supplements. That last month... Sixteen-hour days, eating and training and eating and training... It was a fucking nightmare."

"But you made it," Garrus exhaled.

"Almost," Nihlus said. "They... uh... In the end, they didn't allow me to compete."

"Because of the weight?"

"No." Nihlus launched himself into the first kick of the sequence. Garrus rolled and countered, then danced away as Nihlus unconventionally reversed direction before the second and closed for the left hook. "Because I was born... outside the Hierarchy." And another contact. Garrus hadn't failed to notice how Nihlus' elbow flared away from his ribs, leaving himself vulnerable as they spun in the clinch, but there wasn't time to stop the movement, the instinctive uppercut at the level change. When he struck, Nihlus lost his balance and staggered back. They were near the middle of the third form.

"Fuck," Nihlus said, wiping his forehead.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Thought my head was clear, but just talking about this shit..."

Garrus hesitated. "Want to stop?" _He_ was only getting started, but if Nihlus...

"No. I'm fine. Move on to the fourth?"

"Let's repeat the third."

They continued the exercise in silence, a little slower, focusing on technique, until Garrus felt it was safe to speak again.

"You didn't pursue it... after you enlisted?"

Nihlus snorted. They were close enough for Garrus to catch the warm scent of his breath. "I hated the army," he breathed. "Hated everything about it: the tournaments, the judges, the medals. Lost interest. Trained by myself, for myself. What was it you said before? It was... killing me slowly, like a disease."

"And there I thought you were the model soldier."

"Ha. No. A year before we met..."

They were breathing loudly now. More contact. Gripping sweaty forearms, twisting out of each other's reach. Had the hallori always been this erotic? Garrus remembered it as a stringent game of maneuvering and evasion, working the balance, breathing, muscle-sense. He preferred the real thing. The faster, more aggressive, more chaotic, the better. Yet here he was, taking more pleasure from this dance of speed and wit than he had from anything in years.

"A year before we met?" he encouraged.

"I was a mess of... missed opportunities. Bitterness. Regrets."

"Yeah," Garrus said. "I know what that's like."

"Told you. I understand... better than you think."

"How did you...?"

"Become a Spectre?"

He yearned for the answer and shied away from it at the same time. It was one of those questions that had been sitting on his mind for a decade, always present as a background process. When he slept, he dreamed of being in that camp again, performing to perfection in every fucking task, and then being denied the final reward. Sometimes, he'd see Dad's face; sometimes, more frequently in the last few years, Saren's. But mostly, he'd see the white-striped face he was looking at right now. It wasn't nice, it wasn't fair, it wasn't _rational_, but it was there, and it hurt like salt rubbed into a freshly reopened wound.

Nihlus had stepped in, giving him the initiative. Garrus took it, and there was a bit too much momentum behind his punch, a bit too much gritting of teeth behind his reluctant "Yes."

"You won't like the answer," Nihlus said. He'd shrugged off that punch, but now he returned it with the same amount of force and with the same lack of concern for proper control. Not the prescribed code of conduct for the hallori, of course. Not like either of them gave a damn. "Saren scouted me from the ranks. Took me in. Saved me in every way a man can be saved."

Something clicked, falling in place, and Garrus stopped. "You think I tagged along... so you'd get me back into Spectre training?"

Nihlus wiped the sweat from behind his crest and rolled his head backwards, never breaking eye contact. No answer.

"I didn't," said Garrus. But even as he was saying it, he realized it was a lie. He certainly hadn't come along to fix the damn Mako and search the ship for lost possessions. Nor was he half as invested in finding out the truth, or bringing Saren to justice, as he was in the chance to break away from flawed rules and corrupt leaders and for once in his fucked-up life, to be _free_ to do what needed to be done, the way _he_ wanted to do it. _Shit_. Of course he wanted to get back into the Program. There was nothing he wanted more.

"Why _did_ you come along, then?" Nihlus said. "For more mindblowing sex?"

It was a joke. It was intoned as a joke and Nihlus had his joking face on. But Garrus felt it like a slap in the face. The room darkened, the air became unbearably heavy. The heat inside him made a sickening phase shift, changing from desire to a searing, dangerous anger. He took one threatening step forward, taking position again.

"I was joking," Nihlus said, but didn't give ground. "You know that, right?"

"Fuck you."

Probably the wrong word to use in the context. Close as they were standing now, he could pick up the scent of soap from Nihlus' bare skin, the warmth of exertion radiating from his collar and shoulders. All the mixed feelings coalesced into a feral urge to beat him into submission, bend him over and fuck him sensless.

Instead, they started another sequence. Faster pace, more power. This was violence, barely restrained. Each of them intruding into the other's space, the separation between them almost hostile. If there was 'tension' before, there was high voltage now. Elevated heart rate, breathing obscenely synchronized. Not a setting for civilized discourse. A charged cloud just waiting for a spark to start the chain reaction. But Garrus just couldn't let it drop.

"And you, Spectre? Why did _you_ come along?"

"I'm sorry, Garrus. I don't know why I said that."

"Yeah. Your usual charm has gone the way of your mettle. Tell me, Nihlus. What's going to happen when we find him? Are you going to stand with us, or with him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Please. Save that shit for Shepard. No... actually... let me guess. Shepard doesn't know. She doesn't _need_ to know because you've got everything... under control. Right? Nothing out of the ordinary... in the fact that our leader is... sleeping with the enemy. Literally."

Though he hadn't exactly meant to deliver the challenge in his most bitter voice, he _did_ expect the exercise to escalate to a whole new level, and made ready for an attack. But Nihlus burst into laughter instead.

"That _wasn't_ a joke," Garrus said.

"I know." The exchange of moves took on an air of discipline again. Neither of them tried to get the separation back into the polite range, though. "It's just that talking about Saren... is a _major_ turn-off. And we don't want that, right?"

"Fuck you," Garrus repeated, but his anger was already dissipating like a bad dream. _Damn_.

Nihlus chuckled. "As for Shepard... I didn't talk about it with her, but... she must know. She's not stupid. Not by a long shot."

"Never said she was." He mulled it over during the next three moves. "How is she in combat?"

"Like the thunder. Like the tide. She's a force of nature." Again, the devilish grin. "And she has a thing for you."

He had never been good at feigning nonchalance, but he had to try. "Oh?"

"Oh, come on. Haven't you seen the way she looks at you? And I've seen the way _you_ look at _her_. Don't blame you, either."

"Um... No. I don't do xeno."

"If you say so." Two quick kicks, one to the midsection, one to the head. "You're missing out."

"I hear you're not."

This time they laughed together. It was a good moment to take a break anyway, and Nihlus went for the water dispenser. "Go on," he said between drinking and splashing his face and neck. "Ask me about Liara. I know you want to."

Garrus stretched. His right shoulder was making _sounds_ and he frowned. _You're getting old, Vakarian. Old and grumpy. Just like Dad._

"Alright," he said aloud. "Alright. Are you going through with it? The, uh... melding thing."

"I already have."

"Oh?" No need to feign surprise this time.

Nihlus straightened up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah." They blinked at each other for several times in the sudden silence. "I didn't sleep with her, if that's what you mean."

"Oh."

"For most asari, touch is enough, you know. To share ideas, memories. She didn't believe me when I told her how horrible it was, all that shit from the beacons. Anything for another piece of the Prothean puzzle! She won't try that in a hurry again. Probably sounds silly to you, but that was a pretty brave thing she did. Couldn't quite keep her discomfort from me. Usually they can choose what to show, and what to hide, but this was different. She ended up passing out."

"Fuck," Garrus muttered, seriously reconsidering his childish desires and jealousies. Being here, doing this, it was too damn easy to forget that they were on the verge of a fucking war, and that there was some scary shit going on. "I had no idea it was that bad. Is she okay?"

"She will be."

"Fuck," he repeated. The air was no longer hot; in fact, he was starting to feel a chill creeping up his sweaty back. "Did it do anything for you?"

"Cleared my head. Or so I thought."

Garrus swallowed. "So... What will it be?"

"The fifth form?"

The fifth wasn't a part of the standard curriculum. In theory, Garrus knew the moves, but wouldn't play against a hallori master. Forms had never really been his thing, but... Suddenly, the image of Nihlus _teaching_ him, adjusting his posture and movements and demonstrating with his own body, ignited his excitement anew. He wasn't tired; he could do this all day, every day.

But that wasn't what he had asked. He had almost started to rephrase the question - to ask it in a more direct way, to be brazen, even - when he caught the mischievous slant of Nihlus' mandible, the gleam in his eyes, sparkling like warm shallows in the sun.

"How about we take this to sparring instead?" he asked, with a grin that left no room for misinterpretation.

Nihlus snorted, and covered the distance between them in three slow steps. "Or a bit of wrestling."

"Is that what you like?" Garrus said, matching the low, rolling undertones, then taking them even deeper. "Wrestling."

"Sometimes."

His face had become serious but his eyes were still smiling. Garrus glanced down. There was a hand on his shoulder. His own talon had somehow found a way under Nihlus' left mandible, invitingly loose. Stray thoughts about the filthy hangar floor and engine grime ghosted across his mind like a shadow of a cloud, but then Nihlus licked the tip of his finger and it was more than enough to make Garrus loose as well. He rumbled.

The next thing he knew, Nihlus was mounting him, pinning him to the floor. Only, Garrus wasn't having it. Not this time. He shouldered out of Nihlus' grip, struggling to reverse their positions. Nihlus was thwarting him with dogged determination. And Spirits, he was every bit as hot, hard and intoxicating as Garrus remembered. Every touch, like flames licking up his skin. He bucked, his foot frantically scrabbling for the outside, and tried the roll again. This time, he could feel Nihlus' body against his, suspiciously compliant. Pressing up against him, under him. Nihlus' legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him close. When he leaned in for a kiss, he realized that the feverish heartbeat, shaking his ribcage like a convict rattling a tin cup over the bars of his cell - wasn't his own. And when his teeth closed on the side of the dark, obediently outstretched neck, that heartbeat became erratic.

He stilled, listening with his body. Nihlus was tense. His grip on Garrus' forearm was desperate, his breathing quick and jerky. Garrus let go, picking up the salt from the shallow imprints of teeth with his tongue.

It only hit him when he pushed himself up and looked again.

The imprints were old, faint, discernible only on close scrutiny. And they were most certainly not _his_.

Nihlus was trembling, his eyes closed. There was no question about how much he wanted this. As much as Garrus, if not more, judging from the sporadic thrusts, looking for friction. But something was wrong.

"You okay?" Garrus whispered.

Five heartbeats. Seven, ten.

"Want to stop?"

The emerald eyes shot open. "No," Nihlus breathed, propping his head up and stealing a quick lick of Garrus' ear. _Oh, Spirits._ "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

Garrus tightened his grip on him. _Are you sure?_

Degree by degree, Nihlus' body relaxed, and the hand holding Garrus' forearm slipped off. _I'm sure._

"Good," Garrus rumbled, and dived for the neck again. The world receded, leaving him lost to his desire and the maddening rhythm of Nihlus' breaths, aware of nothing but the taste, the touch, the warmth rising through his body in wave after exhilarating wave. He maneuvered into position-

And then they both froze, heads snapping in the direction of the most unwelcome sound.

His visor, long forgotten on one of the weight benches, was buzzing.

Garrus looked at Nihlus.

"Let it ri-"

But then the comm crackled. Had to be one of the priority frequencies, or the stupid thing wouldn't have picked up on its own.

"Vakarian?" said a diminutive human voice, cutting through the haze of lust and the drumming of their hearts. "You're up. Come see me in my quarters. Shepard out."

"Shit," Garrus said. Shit, shit, _shit_. "Damn interviews. How the hell did I forget?"

Beneath him, Nihlus was laughing. "This is strangely familiar."

"Yeah. Just like old times."

The tone of his voice made Nihlus grow serious. Well, _more_ serious. "Go," he said softly. "I'll find you later and we'll continue where we left off."

Garrus sighed and started to get up, then changed his mind and bore down for one last, deep kiss.

"Crew deck, cabin six," he muttered. "Try not to get lost."

Nihlus laughed. "I'll try."


	27. The Pulse

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><p><strong>The Pulse<strong>

_Nine hours before the attack on Feros._

"Movement during this phase of diagnostics is discouraged. Please remain still."

Saren grunted a quiet reply without looking at the geth platform. Without looking at what it was doing. His stare was fixed on the pulse of the power core output. Identical red strings of monospace letters indicated that Sovereign was running at optimal capacity. He could lose himself in watching it - bring forth that strange feeling of detachment that had been visiting him with an increasing frequency. As if he were watching himself from _elsewhere_. Perhaps from the recesses of the dark, domed ceiling, or that small opening in the wall, near Benezia's station, that had appeared overnight. To a creature hiding there – and it would have to be some vile, spiny, wormlike atrocity, with hundreds of beady eyes and a black, gaping anus in place of a mouth, oozing some slime to help it squirm through the unclean bowels of the living ship – to a creature living in that terrifying hole, the bridge would appear shadowy and deserted, with sleeping terminals and silent lights twinkling weakly from equipment on standby. One barefaced turian, motionless, barely breathing, and a geth, examining the deeply nested circuitry in the turian's artificial arm. Only the power core status would seem to be alive, scrolling up the holo-pillar in its infinite, unfathomable, hypnotizing rhythm: 61.32, 61.37, 61.34, 61.35, 61.37... Saren took a deep breath and held it until his own pulse started slowing down. 61.35, 61.32, 61.29, 61.25, 61.21.

"Arterius, Agent," the platform said, breaking his fascination. "We have an inquiry."

He let the air out and turned his head slowly, but couldn't tear his eyes from the display. 61.42.

"Ask," he said.

"You have been repeatedly informed that the probability of a late-onset malfunction in the neural interface is negligible. This is the seventh time you have asked for invasive diagnostics nevertheless. We would like to know why."

Saren finally looked at the platform. He had been asked the same question on six of the seven occasions. And each time, the answer had been the same. "Sometimes it moves on its own."

Sometimes, he'd find it curled into a fist so tight that the talons penetrated the flesh to the bone. He had more scars on his synthetic palm than on the entirety of his organic body. Sometimes, he'd wake to find fresh cuts on his left thigh or faint bruises on his neck: one dark fingerprint on the left, two on the right side of his wind-pipe. Sometimes he'd put his pistol on the table and wonder which hand would get to it first.

The platform didn't ask any more questions. Instead, it retracted the long, needle-like probe, taking with it a single, perfectly round droplet of bright blue blood. "Please repeat the test."

He wriggled his fingers, then tapped the designated areas on the console in quick succession. The board lit green: perfect coordination. Which was anything but surprising. The _performance_ of the arm had never been in question.

Long after the geth had departed, Saren remained sitting still, in silence. Alone. As much as one could be, inside a Reaper. Benezia was gone, her workstation powered down and emptied of her personal belongings for the first time in months. It was both a relief, and a source of anxiety. Sending her away was an enormous risk. A risk made necessary not by the urgency of the campaign, but by the unexpected severity of the... _symptoms_. The intermingling of their dreams and memories had been disturbing, but it had been expected, and it hadn't affected their performance. But then it had started spilling over to real-time sensation, and that had cost them yet another beacon.

His insides knotted, mandibles closing around his chin. A change in the rhythm attracted his attention. 61.55, 61.58, 61.56, 61.62. He snorted. You have no right to complain, he told Sovereign in the privacy of his thoughts. You could have intervened, yet you didn't.

The voice remained silent.

Saren's contact on Therum had reported that the research team had found a way into an untouched, circular chamber. It could have been nothing; it could have been exactly what they had been waiting for. After Eden Prime, hiding was no longer a priority. He had intended to go to Therum in force, land Sovereign, and secure the site in one swift strike. It would have been a simple operation: the Alliance had begun to pull troops from distant, isolated colonies, amassing the fleets around their core worlds instead. Therum had been left with nothing but automated planetary defenses and the security detail employed by EAE.

But as the hour had drawn near, Benezia had started crumbling. The sudden intensity of her emotion had thrown Saren off completely. He had been unable to reason with her. For one, it would have been hypocritical: he had allowed himself the chance to save his loved one, why should she be denied the same? But there had been more to it. That basic instinct to protect her child, that blind, deaf, ferocious fear - it had tainted him as well. Clouded his judgment. If he had been in his right mind, he would never have agreed to send a recon unit first.

He would not make the same mistake on Feros.

His omni buzzed, interrupting the reverie. A message from Benezia.

"I arrived safely. The project is in good health, but communication is... difficult. You know of what I speak. I will keep you informed."

He nodded. Then shook his head. Nihlus would be on top of her in a matter of hours.

"Do not linger," he typed back, chest tightening. A glance at the core output. 61.84.


	28. Knots and Ties

#

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><p><strong>Knots and Ties<strong>

_One hour before the attack on Feros._

Shepard squinted through the thick glass wall. Her breaths were drawing white hearts on it, because 286K passed for room temperature on Noveria. It looked warmer in the bar on the other side. Unlike her turian teammates, who were constantly shifting from foot to foot and occasionally emitting sounds suspiciously reminiscent of _chattering teeth_, the guy sitting inside, three tables to the front and two to the right, didn't seem uncomfortable at all.

"What's his name again?" she said, effectively clouding her view. She brushed the glass impatiently with the back of a gloved hand.

"Lorik Qui'in," Nihlus said from behind her. Packed close as they were, she could feel his breath in her hair. "He's a senior manager in Synthetic Insights."

"That supposed to mean something to me?"

"They do AI research," Garrus said. He was standing to her left and she was strangely conscious of the slight chafing between the shoulder pad of her armor and the upper-arm shield of his. "This place is a haven for all sorts of illegal things."

"Things illegal in Council Space," Liara corrected. She was standing to Shepard's right, and each time their hands touched by accident, Shepard would flinch, inching away from her and closer to Garrus. "Many important discoveries that figure prominently in every-day life have been made through methods that are considered immoral by one culture or another. Take medi-gel. Imagine how difficult your job would be without it."

"Take the geth," Shepard replied. "Imagine how _easy_ our job would be without _them_."

"Every discovery can be abused."

"Which is why you scientists should be kept under watch."

"So that you soldiers can be the first to reap the benefits of our work."

Shepard aimed a fell stare at her, but Liara was looking straight through the glass with a calm expression and her chin held high. She had gotten cocky since that whole melding business. Shepard wondered, and not for the first time, what _exactly_ that entailed. She started a response, but Nihlus was faster.

"How about we save this fascinating discussion for another day? If he leaves, it will be a pain in the ass to track him down again."

"Why don't we just go in and talk to him? He knows you, right? Everyone here knows you."

Although the question was directed at Nihlus, it was Liara who answered. "I have never met him in person, but Mother has mentioned him several times. I remember because she rarely gives praise."

"What did she praise him for?"

"For being a fair, but practical individual and a tough negotiator. I do not think he will give us the pass just because we asked him nicely."

"Who said anything about asking _nicely_?" Garrus said, and that put a smile on Shepard's face.

"If Gianna is right about his trouble with the new Administrator," Nihlus muttered, "he might be willing to trade the pass for some dirty work. Like you humans say, we scratch his back, he scratches ours. That sort of thing."

Shepard tried to catch his eyes in the reflection, but they were shifting nervously this way and that. Was this another evasive maneuver? To stretch things out? Delay the confrontation? She had been in a foul mood on Therum, but she hadn't failed to notice how relieved he had been to find no traces of Saren there. Difficult as it was for her to imagine how anyone could nurture affection for that goddamn murderous maniac, she would have _tried,_ if only Nihlus had trusted her enough to _talk_ about it. To explain whatever the hell was going on in his crazy head. But no. Instead, he chose to meld with the asari. How very fucking productive. Shepard hadn't fully trusted _him_ nor his commitment to the mission even before that, but now... as far as she was concerned, he was standing with one boot in enemy camp.

"What sort of thing, exactly?" She pretended to be absorbed in looking through the glass like everyone else, while she was actually observing his reflection, waiting for some confirmation of her suspicions.

Nihlus shrugged. "Kill someone. Dig out some secrets. Or bury them. You know: Spectre work."

"We don't have time for that," Garrus said, reading her mind. "The moment we turn our backs on her, Benezia will take off, and she'll leave _nothing_ behind. You should know better than anyone" - and he glanced at Nihlus - "how good Saren is at covering his tracks."

Nihlus didn't glance back. His mandibles were pressed to his face in a strange way, but fuck, Shepard had no idea what to make of it. She frowned. "Spectre work also covers killing _him_, digging out his pass, and burying the remains."

"Shepard!" Liara gasped. "You are not serious. Are you?"

Shepard snorted, trying hard not to roll her eyes. How she hated working with civilians! A civilian on the team was like a gangrenous limb: slowing everything down, disregarding orders, always complaining, and putting everyone at risk. Not to mention having no sense of humor. She knew the turians were thinking the same even before Liara's wide-open eyes turned to Nihlus only to be answered with a dismissive shake of the head. Garrus was actually smiling.

Now, how was it that she could read _his_ face without a hitch?

"There _must_ be a better way," Liara insisted.

Shepard sighed and turned around to look at Nihlus directly. "Think he has the pass on him?"

"Yeah. He needs it to get around. Why?"

The weight of all the alien eyes on her suddenly became palpable, and she started chewing on her lower lip. "Where would he keep it? A wallet? A pocket?"

"Probably a wallet," said Garrus, suspiciously, slowly. His eyes were the heaviest, scanning her with his trademark cop stare. "What's on your mind, Shepard?"

"Oh, nothing... Spectre work." She gave him a big cheesy smile. "What I need from _you_, is a diversion."

Garrus blinked at her a couple of times, as if waking up and remembering where they were and what was at stake. "Like what?" he said. "Starting a brawl?"

"I didn't mean _you_ specifically, Vakarian. Any or all of you would do." She cast a pointed look at Liara, who seemed to be having trouble keeping up with the conversation. "Perhaps something a bit more subtle."

"Ah," Garrus said. "In that case, he's probably the better choice."

It took Shepard a second to process the words, and another to follow his gaze over to Nihlus. And then a couple more, to wrap her mind around the strangely-shaped concept that was seemingly being implied.

"Aw, man," Nihlus groaned. "Why don't _you_ do it?"

"Please. When have you ever heard of anyone falling for a guy in a C-Sec uniform?"

"Oh, come on. Guys like that _love_ the uniform."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Shepard followed the exchange by turning from left to right. Although the changing tones in the turian voices and the weird movements of their facial geometry wouldn't mean much in another context, the message was coming across just fine.

"Fuck me," she snorted. "So it's true. All turians are gay."

Liara's huge, wet eyes became even larger. "Shepard! What a terrible thing to say! Not only is it rude even by your abysmal standards, but it is also entirely untrue. What?" she barked at Nihlus, who had put a hand on her shoulder. "We are no longer on the Normandy and I do not feel I am in any way obliged to tolerate this kind of uninformed slander." She took a deliberate deep breath, as if trying to dial back on the excitement, but it had already left round patches of violet blush on her cheeks. It would have been funny if not for the outraged stare and the annoyingly nagging posture.

"The turian word for 'homosexual'," Liara resumed in a tone that was supposed to sound calmer, "become archaic more than eight hundred years ago, roughly a century after the admission of the Hierarchy into the Council. It only came back to regular use after first contact with your species." The blush deepened, and she even lifted a finger now, though not yet high enough to give Shepard an excuse to _slap it_.

"The overwhelming majority of turians today self-identify as pansexual, although aversion towards relationships with members of different species thrives in conservative subcultures, just like gender-based prejudice thrives in some human subcultures despite the overall positive trends. I do not believe that it is fitting for a Spectre candidate to..."

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Shepard muttered. She was no longer amused.

Liara couldn't read the warning signs, but fortunately, Nihlus could.

"Liara, it's fine," he said, the hand on her shoulder curling into a grip, eyes boring into Shepard, pleading for patience.

"But..."

"It's fine," he repeated, then gestured with his head. "Come on, Shepard. Let's do this."

"About fucking time."

#

"I do not understand," whispered Liara after Nihlus and Shepard had left. "Surely nothing I said could have been as offensive as what she said."

Garrus sighed. Why was _he_ always the one who had to explain awkward things to aliens?

"That was a joke, Liara. She meant no offense."

"A joke?" Her face assumed the textbook dumbfounded expression. "What kind of a joke could it possibly be?"

"A very old one."

He glanced through the glass. No one in sight yet, and Qui'in seemed comfortably rooted to his spot. _He_ was freezing, however. Why was it, again, that he volunteered Nihlus for indoor work, and not himself?

"I do not understand," Liara repeated.

"Because you're a civilian," he explained distractedly. "Soldiers' humor isn't always politically correct, especially when forged during wartime. And this one dates all the way back to Relay 314."

He saw Nihlus entering the scene.

"See, the human defenders on Shanxi couldn't tell turian men from turian women."

Nihlus stood at the entrance for a while, pretending to scan the space, while actually attracting attention. He flexed his shoulder and rolled his head so that nobody would miss his splendid form. _Cheeky bastard._ As he stalked towards the bar, Qui'in's head homed in on him like a well-calibrated auto-targeting system.

"So what?" Liara said, reminding him that he had begun speaking.

"War is still predominantly a male occupation on human worlds."

Nihlus ordered some luminous cocktail that didn't quite fit with the image his armor projected, and started sipping it, pretending that he hadn't noticed the only other turian inside. Qui'in was openly staring. What else could one do?

"I am sorry, Garrus," Liara said. "But I still do not see how that is related to what Shepard said."

He turned to her, but it didn't look like she was pulling his leg. She appeared genuinely clueless.

"Sex is a favorite pastime among turian soldiers," he said. Predictably, her eyes widened. "Oh, please. Everyone knows that. Humans observed this behavior... and made conclusions."

Inside the bar, visual had been established. Qui'in took his glass to his mouth, and Nihlus leaned back on his elbows, a dark, focused expression on his face. Only a blind man could ignore him. Garrus wondered how far, exactly, did Shepard mean to take this ruse. As far as... drinks? Sky car? Hotel room?

"I see," Liara said quietly. "I suppose I will have to work on my sense of soldiers' humor, among other things."

And there. Measuring the victim under his brow, Nihlus gently flicked his mandibles. Garrus had seen it coming but he flinched anyway. He knew the gesture all too well. Qui'in stood up and started to maneuver between the tables and chairs. As if hypnotized.

It was more than the gesture. All of this hit uncomfortably close to home. Garrus swallowed. His throat was suddenly thick, his skin covered with cold sweat that had appeared out of nowhere. Watching Nihlus at work was like seeing a favorite magical trick dismantled and explained in all its prosaic triviality.

"Look," whispered Liara, but he'd seen it already. As Qui'in stepped near the bar, Shepard dived out of the shadows behind it, trailing after him. Garrus shook off the strange thoughts, focusing on the show ahead. Timing, improvisation, quick wits - all requisite for pulling a stunt like this, but Nihlus and Shepard were playing like an old, well-trained team. When Nihlus extended his drink towards Qui'in in a salute, Shepard 'tripped' and 'stumbled', 'clinging to his arm' for 'support' and pushing him right into the glass that was still mostly full.

Liara gasped. It looked frighteningly genuine.

The next second, Nihlus was obligingly wiping the spilled drink from the victim's chest with a napkin while Shepard was apologizing, dividing the victim's attention. Garrus snorted. Nihlus was good, but Shepard was a fucking pro. He knew exactly how these things worked, and he still didn't manage to catch her in the act. The diabolical smile she allowed herself on the way out left no room for doubt.

She rejoined them looking as innocent as ever, a vibrant air about her slightly flushed face the only sign that something out of the ordinary had happened.

"Let's see," she uttered and produced a decadent leather wallet from a belt compartment. She fumbled with it for a few seconds, then handed it to Garrus. "You turians always make everything so complicated."

Liara took a breath to protest again, but caught his glance and changed her mind.

"Yeah, everything but our pockets," he replied. "Remind me to keep en eye on my stuff around you, Shepard. That was a textbook operation."

"Textbook would be snatching his datapad as well. But thanks."

He looked up, intending to meet her confident grin with a disapproving shake of the head, but what he saw in her eyes wasn't the mischievous gleam he had expected. There was something else there, something that made him remember what Nihlus had told him during their... training session. Something that made him avert his gaze, feeling all self-conscious out of the sudden, and focus on the stubborn thing in his hands, fingers slow and clumsy from the cold.

"Let me," Liara said, taking it from him. Her deft little hands opened it in no time, then rummaged systematically through the many compartments, and finally produced a chit-sized card. "This is it."

"We're all set, then."

But something was missing. Garrus looked back inside the bar. "Where's Nihlus?"

#

Of course his codes were still valid. It would have been stupid to change them. It would have signaled secrecy, mystery, something of value inside. And Nihlus knew better than anyone how good Saren was at covering his tracks.

He shuddered when the door closed behind him, driving a stream of chilly air inside. The fluffy white carpet under his boots soaked up the sporadic sounds of his footsteps. In the pristine silence, his heart was hammering like a war-drum.

_What the fuck are you doing?_

Not the first time he asked himself that question in the last twenty hours. There, left alone in that gym, the answer had been: _Nothing worse than what _Saren_ is doing._ A sharp, dry, merciless stab, stirring the anger. There had been no anger before the meld. Just a limp, numb paralysis. It _felt_ like his head was clearer afterwards, but damn, it certainly didn't _look_ like it. When he passed the tall mirror in the foyer, he flinched away from his own crazed stare.

Whatever Liara had done, it worked. He could still recall the Prothean message, but it had lost its potency, its malicious tendency to invade his thoughts. It was a relief - and also a burden. For there was no postponing it anymore. None of it. It would all have to be dealt with, and he had officially run out of excuses: Shepard's mistrust, Garrus' sex appeal, Saren's betrayal.

Not necessarily in that order, obviously. Garrus' scent still lingered in his nostrils and, sweet Spirits, it was like a krogan aphrodisiac. The memory made him smile, but he couldn't sustain the happy thoughts for more than a breath. It wasn't fair. Garrus was a beautiful man. Clear-minded, out-spoken, somewhat conservative, maybe, but who gives a fuck? He would be _good_ for Nihlus.

Too good? Certainly far better than what he deserved. He and Saren, they were both tired, cynical bastards. Garrus was an idealist. Truth, justice, all that jazz - they only held a marginal value for Nihlus, and none for Saren. But Garrus was - what was that human word? - a _crusader_. Yes. He had a vision, and it wasn't some shitty second-hand blood-and-gore thing like the stuff the beacons had filled Nihlus' head with. It was a vision of a clean, efficient world, with controlled chaos doing regular rounds to keep it that way. He would keep Nihlus honest and focused. He would keep him warm during long nights in FTL. He could also teach him a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat, and _that_ was something Nihlus had doubted he'd ever admit to another man.

_You've been given a second chance, Kryik._

"Shut up," he said aloud. Too loud. Were the words really echoing between the naked, white walls, or was it all inside his head? He turned around, inspecting the corners of the high ceiling, the light fixtures, the thin shadows cast by dead furniture. It was more than likely that the whole place was under surveillance. Perhaps Saren was watching him from some remote location, sitting in a hover-chair with his arms crossed, blinking no more often than a few times a minute - a redundant gesture fueled not by need but by mere muscle memory. He would be thinking of Nihlus just the way Nihlus was thinking about him: a perpetual hum of knowing and longing, fading into background while he was busy, say, surviving, but more than able to flood his senses with wishes and memories and render him mute and paralyzed when he was alone, like now. _Lonely_, like now. Spirits, how he had hoped to meet Saren after that damned hearing! How he had wanted to just... lay his head on Saren's knees and _rest_. Would he _ever_ be able to rest again? Be calm and content, free of wants and fears? He didn't require much for happiness. A warm presence within his reach. Strong arms, to hold him tight. Whispered vows. Trust. Was he never to have that again?

There had been no sadness, before the meld. Just a dumb, deaf disbelief. And now water was gathering in the corners of his eyes. He had only gotten as far as the middle of the living room and couldn't move one step farther, unseeing eyes wondering from one soulless item to the next. There was about as much of Saren here as there was of Nihlus in that cabin on the Normandy. Less. Nihlus had a coconut. Saren had left _nothing_ here. Not even an impression in the mattress.

_What did you expect to find? You already got the farewell note._

Panic gripped him from inside, washed his whole body in cold sweat. The silence, the silence became unbearable. The empty, soundless air solidified into a _glacier_ around him, restricting his motion, restricting his breathing, crushing him alive. He took the first thing his arms could reach - a round white vase, certainly priceless - and hurled it at the far wall with all his might, but it failed to shatter the ice and even the ringing of the shards was muffled by the damn carpet.

He ran for the door.

#

Liara picked up her pace. There was something strangely satisfying in having Shepard struggle to keep up. A thought to be ashamed of, for sure, but there was no helping it. Shepard was a coldblooded killer, a sociopath tolerated by peers and superiors only on account of her ability to do dirty work efficiently and without remorse. Oh yes: Liara had done her homework. The Alliance had none other than the Butcher of Torfan chasing after Saren... and Mother.

She swallowed back the rush of dark fear. Nobody would speak to her about what they intended to _do_ once they reached Peak 15. The savage gleam in Shepard's eye, the air of passion about her when she spoke of violence... she was obnoxious, yes, impolite and unrefined, but all that was to be expected from a hardened soldier. The sadistic streak, however... Liara did not know what to make of that. It was a thing far more alien than her human hair and the disturbingly green eyes. Only one other person in Liara's acquaintance had such a dangerous aura of absolute authority. But Saren always looked like a man who knows what he is doing. Shepard, on the other hand...

Another wave of fear washed through her. _Oh, Mother! What have you gotten yourself into?_

Nihlus was the only one who could keep Shepard in check. And Nihlus was falling apart.

Another thought to be ashamed of, and even more than the first, because she had no right to know that. She had no right to know that Nihlus would go to Saren's apartment, just like she had no right to know that he would seek solace in the crowd and noise of the Plaza after finding nothing but fading memories there. She had no right to _remember..._ the warmth of the twin blue suns shining on an indescribable emotional landscape... the unwavering wonderment... the gratitude for being the one, the only one, to experience the unbelievable tenderness those hands, covered by the blood of thousands, could caress with.

They both knew the meld had gone wrong. Her intentions had been pure but she had not been ready. There was some comfort in the certainty that no living creature, asari or not, experienced or not - _could_ have been ready for that. But that did not diminish the violation. That kind of breach - into the deepest, most private levels of his being - was unforgivable. Yet instead of being angry, Nihlus had been grateful. He did not understand, even though she had tried to explain it.

She had seen through his eyes; nothing would ever be the same.

They stopped at the southern stairs. The Plaza was a lot more crowded than she had expected. It looked like there were thousands of people down there, a churning mass flowing in turbulent motion between the towering entrance to the Expo Halls, the Spherical Skating Dome and along the pseudo-alleys formed by dozens of restaurants catering to all known space-faring species.

"Lunch-time," she whispered to herself. Suddenly she was no longer so sure she could find him.

"We'll never spot him in this crowd," Garrus said from behind her. "If he's here at all."

"I can't believe he switched off his comms," Shepard muttered. "Like we're on a goddamn picnic."

"You're sure he didn't say anything?"

"As sure as I was the first three times you asked."

A minute of tense silence passed as they watched the mass. With each second, coming here looked more and more like a waste of body-heat.

"This is ridiculous," Garrus grumbled. "We should go back to the Normandy."

"They'll call if he shows up."

Liara glanced over her shoulder and met Shepard's eyes. She was the last person Liara would have expected support from, but that was exactly what that strange, intense stare was giving her at the moment. She nodded a silent thanks.

When she turned around again, she saw him. She bounced up and down like a little girl, unable to contain the raw joy of victory. "There," she exclaimed, pointing with her arm. "By that tree!"

Like a stubborn rock in the middle of a rushing stream, Nihlus was standing still in the middle of the Plaza, defying the flow of the crowd. What a strange posture. Liara stilled and inclined her head, trying for a better perspective. He had one hand on the side of his neck but it was too far to see why.

Garrus stepped forward, adjusting his visor. He observed for a few beats, then shook his head.

"What's he doing?" said Shepard.

He made a strange gesture with his mandibles. "Remembering," he said at last, almost too quiet to be heard.

"Remembering what?"

"His allegiance."

* * *

><p>#<p> 


	29. Feros

Note: Dear readers, please go check out this lovely work of fanart: TinyURL code **cecftkr**

While not directly an illustration for this chapter, it is, in a way, an illustration for _Ghost in the Machine_.

* * *

><p><strong>Feros<strong>

Saren didn't want to think it, but after some moments of internal struggle, he realized resistance was futile. He wished Nihlus was there. The sight of Feros, the Prothean megalopolis, with needle-like spires casting long shadows over the pristinely white clouds in the pale, chilly dawn was something Nihlus would revel in, saying poetic things in his orator voice (which ran more than a few keys lower than his normal speech), and blinking tears of high emotion from his eyes when he thought Saren wasn't looking. Perhaps he'd even be moved to immortalize the scene by painting. A quick sketch with a pencil, then a minute of biting his right mandible, then a high-resolution shot from the visual detectors – to keep the light steady, he'd explain.

An alarming stab somewhere deep inside his chest compelled Saren to reach up with his right hand, but he checked the impulse in time and remained motionless, staring at the desolate, abandoned world.

He had been thoroughly surprised, and even distraught, to find that Nihlus had developed a lasting fascination with Prothean history in the recent years. Nothing other than pornography and painting had ever seemed to capture his interest for long. When they had first met, it had been famous human philosophers. Later, there had been singing. After that, a brief period of feverish immersion in early salarian cinematography, then more recently, in elcor poetry, and who knows how many other things that had either been too fleeting or too mundane for Saren to register. Nihlus' flights of fancy were as difficult to predict as they were to influence; there had been nothing Saren could have done to steer his attention away from Prothean lore without piquing his curiosity even further. He had never seen Nihlus so taken, so absorbed, and if not for the constant fear of being discovered, it would have been an enthralling experience.

There had been a time, long ago, when Saren had been equally enamored with the Protheans. But even before he'd learned about their inglorious fate from Sovereign, he had looked down upon the irrational idolatry of their existence and disappearance as distasteful, almost offensive; and later, he had fantasied about revealing the sad truth for the entire Galaxy to see, and possibly, despair. Better to die knowing the truth than to live hiding from it, isn't that right, brother?

And the truth was that the Protheans had been just another client race of the Reapers, playing in their sandbox, using their mass effect technology just like the space-faring species of this cycle. They were no gods; they were no superior beings. On the contrary: they had proven to be inferior, imperfect, and for that, they had been destroyed.

Perversely, he derived _comfort_ from the horrific images the beacons had imprinted on his mind. Saren wouldn't let that happen to his people. He would save them from that destiny, no matter the price.

Another stab in the chest. He glanced at the place where the artificial limb came in direct contact with living tissue under the armor. It was malfunctioning. It had to be. He was growing more certain of it with each passing day.

He had never trusted it completely. Somewhere in his brain, the memory, a collection of horrific images of his own, was lost beyond his reach. He knew how the accident happened. He had even watched the security footage that had caught it, but he couldn't _remember_. A flaw to cover up a weakness. An intelligence such as Sovereign's had neither, and he envied it deeply. He loathed the idea that there was something inside him, something not only out of his control, but also outside his ability to analyze and understand, that worked against him, that defied his wishes and ignored his orders, something that was hiding things from him under the pretense that it was trying to protect him. It was insulting.

A terminal beeped somewhere behind his back and he turned away from the drawbridge, absently memorizing the positions of the ships in their escort, trailing behind. The interior of a geth dropship was possibly the most uninspiring thing he'd ever seen: a monolithic hallway lined with racks where the geth slumbered, folded in their compact forms. Other than weapons and other equipment mag-tied to the floor between the racks, there was nothing in the hallway. No seats, no bunks. No bulkheads to separate the hall from the cockpit. The barrier sealing off the drawbridge was installed for the sake of the organics. He had ordered the drawbridge lowered. Having a window to look through was a luxury after the long months spent on Sovereign.

Shiala looked up when he approached. "Sir? We're going under, sir," she said.

He took a seat in the co-pilot chair and strapped himself in. They descended under the cloud cover, and the light dimmed by several degrees. The sight lost much of its beauty and all of its innocence as the clear white of the cloudscape was replaced by the dull grays of a decaying cityscape. Saren frowned at the display, then pulled down the tactical overlay. A couple of distant towers lit up with labels and readings.

"That's the human settlement, sir," Shiala said. "Other than them, there's only flora. And not only here. The whole planet is like this."

Saren snorted. Protheans sure knew how to squeeze the life out of their worlds.

"Who would want to live in this place?" she whispered. "They will need a hundred generations just to clear the rubble."

"No, they won't."

"Yes, sir. We'll make sure of that."

"Not we," he muttered, then turned to study her. He liked Shiala. Intelligent, efficient, and a formidable biotic. She had probably lived half a dozen of his lifetimes, but unlike Benezia, she was a soldier, and that was something Saren could understand. Reading her reports would have been a pleasure if not for all the negatives: the sweep of the surface turned up no promising sites to search for the beacon, and there were no traces of the elusive emissions characteristic of active Prothean technology. Sovereign would scramble all communication attempts from the human colony, but their defensive capabilities were unknown, and the nature of the research Exo Geni was conducting was classified. Something that wouldn't have been a problem just a week ago.

None of this was Shiala's fault, however, and he was making her nervous for no good reason. "Relax," he said. "You'll do fine."

"The Matriach trusts me, sir, and so can you."

Saren hummed some indeterminate response to that. Trust was a heavy word, but this wasn't the time for semantics.

"Take three units and go to the colony," he said after a while. "I'll take care of the research center."

"Yes, sir. What should I do about the civilians?"

"Keep them out of my way."

"Yes, sir."

Just as the dropship latched onto the side of the building taken up by Exo Geni, his omni buzzed again. He exchanged a glance with Shiala. She unstrapped and left the cockpit without a word. After a second, the heavy beat of her boots was drowned in the clicking and clanging of the awakening geth.

Saren hesitated for another moment, then clicked the message, and a wave of adrenalin washed through him like a shot of stims.

"Nihlus is here. Liara is with him. They are traveling on that Alliance vessel and I do not have the numbers to hold them back. They have just landed, but I fear there will not be enough time to extract the information we need. Saren, I am scared. Please, advise."

He heard himself breathing deeper and deeper, louder and louder, until his exhales turned into quiet growls. He had known this would happen, but still he had to employ every iota of his self-control to contain the burning, helpless anger. To hell with Nihlus and his human pup! And now that he had Benezia's daughter with him, she didn't stand a chance. She would either be killed or captured, or seduced to join them and there was _nothing_ to be done about it, because the alternatives were even _worse_.

The prosthetic hand curled into a vicious fist, and it hit the console with all its strength before he could rein in the rage. The display shifted and quivered, then snapped off with a quiet hiss.

There was a momentary pause in the clamor behind him, and he could picture dozens of geth heads turning in his direction to witness yet another outburst. He massaged his forehead, bearing down on the plates. _Calm down. You're better than this._

He took a deep breath and typed a reply.

"Release the experiments."


	30. Rachni

#

* * *

><p><strong>Rachni<strong>

Shepard had been shocked when she saw the geth for the first time, because hey! Nobody had seen the geth for three hundred years so _obviously_ there was no need to fear them, right? Right?

And now that she was standing atop a dead _rachni_, she didn't know how she was supposed to feel. Because nobody had seen the fucking rachni for three fucking _thousand_ years and they were supposed to be fucking extinct. Since 'shocked' had already been taken, what then? Nerve-stripped and mind-wiped? What the hell was next, eh? Prothy the fucking Prothean?

Everybody else seemed equally lost for words, standing at a respectful distance around the twisted, shriveled up corpse of what looked like a disgusting, mutated, but above all, _giant_ hybrid of a shrimp and a cockroach. How they had managed to kill the thing was anyone's guess. It had jumped at them, like bugs do, from some locker that Liara just _had_ to open - and they had all screamed, like experienced professional soldiers (and an archaeologist) do, and then there was chaos and shooting and it was dead. Yeah.

Nihlus had been the first to speak. He'd said, "It's a..."

Liara had been the first to actually gather back her wits. She'd said, "It looks like a rachni."

Garrus spoke for all when he'd said, "Impossible."

And now it was Shepard's turn to say something but she really didn't know what to say. She hated that: people looking at her, expecting her to be all smart and authoritative. Give me something to do, something to steal, something to kill, sure! Just don't ask me to give speeches, and toasts, and be dramatic and romantic and all that crap. She looked from face to face, and decided to say exactly what she thought:

"We should go."

A sobering notion, and they all started fidgeting, like travelers leaving a space shuttle and looking around for stuff they might have forgotten.

"Wait," Liara said. "We should examine it before we leave. I can take some scans and samples. After all, nobody has seen the rachni for two thousand years and... Shepard. That is very mean of you."

All eyes turned on her, accusingly.

"What?" She had only been mimicking Liara's incessant blah-blah-blah. Liara should have been grateful, because Garrus did a much worse impression.

"We don't have the time to study it," said Nihlus. "And... I don't want anybody to mistake me for a pessimist, but I have the feeling that we will meet more of these."

He kicked the corpse, and it twitched, and twitching rachni corpses made professional soldiers shoot what sounded like entire slabs of ammo until they were sure the corpses were actually dead.

"I need a drink," Shepard said. She didn't expect the declaration to do anything other than break the tension, but to everybody's surprise, Nihlus reached into the magic pouch on his right thigh and produced a flask. He took a long drag, then offered it to her.

"A levo-drink."

"It's ryncol," he said, coughing a bit. "It transcends the chirality barrier. Trust me."

"Okay..." She took the flask. The smell was horrible, but in a good way. She became aware that Garrus and Liara looked intensely mortified. "What?"

"You shouldn't be drinking on duty," Garrus said, sounding like a bad stereotype of a cop in some extranet sitcom. It was directed at Nihlus as much as at her.

"So when am I supposed to drink, eh?" said Nihlus. "Or don't you know?" He cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and spoke in a different tone, as if quoting someone else: "A Spectre is never off duty."

That sounded like an attempt to make a joke, but by the looks of it, nobody got it. Garrus, in particular, didn't seem amused. There was an almost hostile glint in his eye. Couldn't Nihlus see it? Perhaps he was ignoring it on purpose. How odd. Just hours ago, she could have sworn the two were flirting.

She took a swig and managed to spit out most, but the bit that went down her throat was like liquid fire. "Fuck," she said, voice raw and deep from the alcohol. It certainly _tasted_ toxic. Nihlus chuckled, and Liara was staring like she had never seen a woman drink from a flask before. And perhaps she hadn't. Shepard took another sip, swallowed it whole, and this time, kept her face straight. "Nihlus," she said. "Please tell me you're joking. About that always-on-duty thing."

He shrugged. "A Spectre is also above the law, so we can drink whenever we want."

"But Shepard is not a Spectre yet," said Liara.

"Go ahead and file a complaint," said Shepard, giving the flask back. "I don't care. If this is what Spectre work looks like, I'll rather drive a sky cab anyway."

That was a tad too honest and Shepard realized too late that there was an annoying whiny undertone to her words that made everyone quiet down. Nihlus gave her a serious, questioning look, but she waved him away. Of course she didn't mean that. She'd drive a _space_ cab at the very least.

But now Liara knelt down and touched the dead beast, carefully, like she suspected it was diseased. "What in the name of the Goddess are they doing?"

Trembling chins and teary voices usually had little effect on Shepard, but something about Liara's words got under her skin and she shuddered. The wisdom of bringing a civilian along had always been suspect, but only now did Shepard consider the fact that they were after Liara's _mother_. What if it all went to hell and—

"I wish I knew," Nihlus muttered. "Raising an army? The geth, the rachni... all they need to complete the circle are the krogan."

"Keep that up and nobody will mistake you for an _optimist_ again," Garrus said.

Shepard started to offer her idea about the Protheans as a way to lift the mood, but then she saw Nihlus' face light up like a little sun.

"Hey! What if they're raising an army _against_ the Reapers?"

Everybody peered at him incredulously, and Liara's huge eyes, filling with tears, were a sign that it was really not a good time to joke about this. Only Nihlus wasn't joking.

"Just think about it, okay? Bear with me, just for a second. What if Saren found out about the Reapers and – suppose they are real – so, knowing that nobody would believe him, he started to gather forces to fight them on his own?" Nihlus looked from one to the other, trying to get them to smile with him at the brilliant new idea, but no one moved a muscle. Somehow he took that as encouragement to go on, sounding a little hysterical. "And... and... what Benezia said, in Tali's voice clip – she said, 'and one step closer to the return of the Reapers' – she could have meant, one step closer to the _victory_ over the Reapers and just... shortened it a little. You know."

But even before he stopped talking, his smile fell off and his brows furrowed above his eyes, misty with disappointment.

Shepard frowned, trying to connect the dots. There was something missing, some hidden component to make his odd behavior make sense. It was related to Saren, that much was plain; it was personal, and it went deep. She had thought about it a dozen times already, in the lonely dark of her cabin, watching the stars trail outside the viewport; and still she didn't know what position to take. Could losing a friend, even a close friend (if that was what Saren had been to him), to some crazy excuse for grabbing power over thousands of dead bodies, dead _human_ bodies, be this… devastating? Because, at times, that was how Nihlus looked. Like now. Devastated.

A strange, almost palpable wave of empathy rolled across the group from Liara to Nihlus and for the first time, Shepard felt sorry for him. For whatever he was going through. It was always a mystery to her, why adding your own sadness to the sadness of another made for _less_ sadness all around instead of _more_, but she wanted to try it nevertheless. She wanted to touch him. She even started to reach—

But Liara was faster. She stood up, and did something that made Shepard's stomach flip over. Liara laid a hand on Nihlus' face, and he leaned into it, closing his eyes.

Shepard couldn't watch, so she turned to Garrus, just in time to see him mirror her movement and, as far as she could tell, her sentiment. He too felt like a third wheel. Or worse. They looked at one another, longer and more focused than ever before, and Shepard wished she had the nerve to play the smartass and do with him what Liara was doing with Nihlus. But it would be too cheesy. So she just made a face, and he replied by rolling his eyes and then they smiled at each other and that had to suffice.

When they finally moved out, they found that Nihlus had been right. The upper floors were crawling with the rachni but, isolated as they were from each other on a personal level, in combat they worked well as a team. After the first few encounters, they became proficient at dispatching the monsters. Despite her personality flaws, Liara was a formidable biotic. Garrus could do wonders with his sniper rifle. And Nihlus— well, he performed to perfection in any role the situation demanded.

Oh yes. He was still as perfect as that day in the med bay, when she spoke about him with the elation of a true fan. If that was what being a Spectre meant, she would do her best, and more, to deserve the title. But she kept a wary eye on him, adrenalin kicking in each time she caught him staring at nothingness with foggy eyes. Because Anderson's cautions no longer sounded paranoid.

_The apple never falls far from the tree._

* * *

><p><em>#<br>_


	31. Ruthless

#

* * *

><p><strong>Ruthless<strong>

The security measures at the ExoGeni research station were laughable. Saren went through them like a plasma cutter through omnigel and the building was taken in a matter of minutes. He ordered the scientists herded in a large conference room, and sent out the geth to hunt down those few who had managed to escape and hide on the lower floors.

Meanwhile, the colonists were putting up more of a fight. He hadn't heard from Shiala for a suspiciously long time; not since she'd reported the humans fighting like "savage beasts". She wasn't much of a racist, so he assumed she meant that something was out of the ordinary.

Finally, he grew restless and pulled up a comm link. Sounds of gunfire, screams and her accelerated breathing greeted him from the other side.

"What's the situation?" he asked, one hand on his earpiece, the other holding the pistol. He paced along the perimeter of the room waiting for Shiala to reply.

"Sir! The colony is almost secured, sir!" A barrage from an automatic weapon. Shiala cursed. Then a high-pitched crackling in the comm. She was mounting a biotic attack.

"I see," he said. Glancing down at his legs, he noticed that his knees were smeared with red human blood. The color offended him.

"But, sir?" The crackling had ceased. Shots, closer, from a geth pulse rifle. "There's something wrong with the colonists. This isn't normal!"

Saren raised an eye ridge. She had reported this twice already. Either he was missing something truly exceptional, or she wasn't as intelligent as he'd thought. He waited for the sounds of carnage to subside before speaking again. "Could you be a little more vague?"

His pacing took him near the chairs again and he cast a lazy gaze over the humans sitting in them, strapped and gagged.

"I don't know how to explain, sir! It's like they've all gone crazy! I know it doesn't make sense..."

"You're right," he said, taking aim at the closest human. "It doesn't."

The human shut his eyes, his fleshy face crumpling under the adhesive tape that covered his mouth. He had hair growing there too. Disgusting. Sometimes, Saren wished he could have his old eyes back, with all their numerous flaws. His implants recorded everything with clinical accuracy. Every drop of sweat, forming in the reddened pores on the human's forehead. Tears, shamelessly streaming from the corners of his eyes. Snot, making balloons under his nose. And as if that wasn't enough, the sniveling creature wet his pants.

Saren moved on, wrinkling his nose.

"No excuse, sir. I'll interrogate some of them, and..."

"Force one to meld with you."

He stalked to the next one, a younger woman, dark-eyed and defiant. Even when he put the muzzle on her sweaty forehead, she kept staring into his eyes. Interesting.

"Yes, sir."

The link went dead and Saren turned his attention to the woman beneath his weapon.

"Will you answer my questions?"

She nodded vigorously.

"Every time I think you're lying, I'll kill one of your friends. Do you understand?"

Another nod. He nodded too, lowered the weapon, and removed the tape from her mouth, making her jump with sudden pain. Then he shot the man who'd pissed his pants. The woman screamed and all the others twitched, enough to make their chair legs scrape against the floor. Naked metal on naked concrete. The sound was unpleasant. The man had been sitting close to the wall and the blood-slicked pieces of bone and brains oozed down, leaving glossy red trails behind. Effective.

"Why did you kill him?" the woman screamed at him. "You didn't even ask me any questions!"

"So you would know I'm serious."

"Turian bastard!" She tried to spit in his face, but she was seated too low and the snot ended up somewhere on his armor. Perhaps he shouldn't have chosen the _most_ defiant after all.

"What's a 'thorian'?" he said. He would give her this one chance.

She looked at him, hatred dripping from her eyes along with tears of utter helplessness. Tears wouldn't move him, though. Answers might. And, as if she'd read that from his face, she started speaking.

"The Thorian... is a sentient plant... that grows under the surface of Feros. As far as we can tell, it predates the Prothean settlements."

"How do you know it's sapient? Can you communicate with it?"

"No," she said, but something about the way her eyes darted to the side made Saren doubt her sincerity. He turned around, looking at the terrified faces, glossy eyes shining dully, a cluster of dying stars.

"Are you sure?" He took aim at a man sitting next to a pillar. His splattered brain would contrast nicely against the white paint.

"Not directly!" the woman hurried to add at hysterical pitch. "It's telepathic!"

A telepathic plant, predating the Prothean settlement, and apparently able to survive the Harvest. Saren had to admit it wasn't something he could have predicted. Could Sovereign? He held his breath for a second, lowered his eyelids to limit input, and waited. But the voice was quiet. The pulse was as calm and uniform as ever.

His earpiece buzzed.

"Sir?" said Shiala, breathless. "Ready to report, sir. But... you won't believe it."

"Try me."

He could hear her footsteps on uneven terrain, boots crunching over debris. A tired exhale when she sat down. How long has it been? He glanced at his omni, raising his brows. Six hours since they landed. Odd. He could have sworn...

"The colonists are under the control of something they call 'the thorian'," Shiala said, her voice low and somewhat difficult to make out over the noises from the background. "They live for it, and they would die for it, but they don't really know what it is. All I could pick up is that it's somewhere near. And it's scared of us."

"Interesting," Saren said, looking up and capturing the stare of the woman he'd been interrogating.

"Sir? Do _you_ know what it is?"

"I'll get back to you."

If there was something that never failed to amuse Saren, it was how people liked to use him, his name and his ways, as a synonym for ruthlessness, maybe even evil - while comfortably wallowing in the products of, or blindly participating in, or, even worse, _consciously_ participating in an entire spectrum of cruelties the likes of which he'd never even conceive of committing. Like these people here.

The woman was looking back at him, fear mixing with exhaustion, but also a bit of curiosity. He waited to see if she'd dare ask him what was going on, but apparently she was too smart for that. They were all too smart. All brains and no heart.

_Look who's talking_, said a voice in his head, the _other_ voice, and then there was laughter, as smooth, alive, and unrestrained as a rushing mountain stream.

The expression on the woman's face was puzzled. Saren realized he'd lost some seconds. Again. He swallowed.

"Tell me about the colony," he said.

"What do you..."

"Speak!" he yelled, getting into her face.

She tried to wriggle away from him to no avail: he had put a hand on her shoulder, the scary hand, and curled his fingers, giving her a little taste of the razor-sharp claws that the hand sported. Why, _why_ would these people want to risk _anything_, especially their lives and the lives of their coworkers, to keep the dirty secrets of some company? He couldn't wrap his mind around it. If they were in a war between, say, his people and her people, and if he were asking for vital strategic information, then such bravery would have made some sense, but this? This was just plain spite.

And Saren had no time for spite. He stepped back and shot the human next to the pillar.

After the screaming and the screeching stopped, he turned back to the woman.

"Speak."

She swallowed, huge, watery eyes wide with shock and unblinking, and started to talk.

"The Thorian exerts influence over people in its vicinity by spreading spores. After a certain exposure level, the spores make the subjects susceptible to mind control and then the Thorian trains them to serve it."

"How are the spores transmitted?"

"In the air."

"How long before it can take control?"

"Weeks. But we only tested on humans."

Saren snorted. They only tested on humans. ExoGeni had built a colony on top of some alien monstrosity, knowing what it would do to their people, their brothers, knowing it would consume them, while they sat watching and gathering statistics. And they called _him_ ruthless.

He tapped his earpiece.

"Sir?"

"Find out where that thing is hiding," he said. "I'm coming."

* * *

><p>#<p> 


	32. Benezia

#

* * *

><p><strong>Benezia<strong>

Nihlus tried to hold Liara back, but wasn't quick enough even though he'd known she'd run for it. She had been keeping up a brave front but… oh, who was he kidding. He'd have done the same if it had been Saren there, standing atop the elevated platform, hands against a thick glass cage. As it came into full view, Nihlus saw that it contained an enormous creature, doubtless another type of rachni, but different from everything that they'd encountered. The brood-mother.

He gave a sign to Shepard and Garrus to hold at the staircase while he eyed the room for threats and defensible positions. Liara was up on the platform already, reaching to touch her mother. But when Benezia faced them, Nihlus was shocked by her sickly, drained appearance. The thin, wiry figure clad in dark colors of mourning and wearing heavy violet sacks under its eyes bore so little resemblance with the vibrant, attractive woman of soft curves and one hell of a seductive smile he remembered from a few years ago that, for a moment, he wasn't sure it was her. And when she spoke, her voice dripped with defeat and despair so deep it sent shivers down his spine.

"You do not know the privilege of being a mother," she said, turning back to the cage again. "There is power in creation. To shape a life, turn it towards happiness or despair… Her children were to be ours. Raised to hunt and slay Sovereign's enemies."

"Mother?"

Benezia's head fell low, a shudder shook her shoulders. She slowly pushed herself away from the cage and addressed Nihlus directly, ignoring Liara's proximity. "I won't be moved by sympathy. No matter who you bring into this confrontation."

"I am right here, Mother," Liara said. "And I am here because I want to, not because they asked me."

"Indeed?" Benezia finally looked at her. "They did not ask for your help? Your expertise? Your advice and aid in combat? Your trust?" With each question, Benezia stepped closer to Liara, and Liara stepped back. "You volunteered?" Benezia laughed, having pinned Liara in the corner of the platform. Her back was turned to the rest of them. Nihlus glanced at Garrus and Shepard and they cautiously advanced up the stairs. "Speak up, child. What have you told them about me?"

"What could I say, Mother?" Liara's voice trembled. "That you have gone insane? That you are not yourself? That my mother would sooner die than condone violence against helpless civilians? Do you even know how many people died by your hands today? Hunted and slain by—" she gestured at the creature in the cage with a shaky hand— "your _children_? What could I say?"

Benezia let out a gravely, mirthless laugh. "They were dead already. All of them. All of us, too. Dead, or worse. We all bear the curse — though some may learn to call it a blessing, this destiny we share, of being born in time to witness the Harvest. A destiny no worse than any other; but our choices may be. Death or slavery? Awareness or illusion? To hide and cower, lie awake at night while the horror of knowledge, and helplessness, crawls over your skin like a sheet of swarming insects? Or speaking out loud so that everyone can hear and call you _insane_?"

She directed her attention at Nihlus. "Is that what you think as well? That I am insane? That _he_ is?"

Nihlus was at a loss for words. How many times had he imagined this conversation? Memorized all the questions that needed answers, all the angles to solve this without violence? And still he couldn't respond to this _one simple _query. Did he think so? And would his fantasies about giving the proverbial finger to both Shepard and the Council and the whole fucking Galaxy and just falling at Saren's feet for better or for worse change at all if the answer was _yes_? He swallowed, mandibles working.

"I can't believe you'd kill your own daughter," he said at last, heart drumming in the intense silence. _I can't believe he'd kill his best friend._

Benezia snorted, reading his mind. "Cannot, or _do not want to_?"

He started to reply, but she used the opening to charge for a vicious biotic attack. He was ready, though; they all were, thanks to Liara's warnings and instructions. She struck Benezia's hand from below, deflecting the Warp towards the ceiling. The overhead lights went out with a deafening crack followed by a shower of blue sparks and glass shards. Nihlus had already leaped forward and landed on top of Benezia before the auxiliary lighting kicked in, painting the scene in nightmarish greens. Her thin, sweaty forearms were slipping through his hands; he barely managed to grab her wrists. Panic struck and she started thrashing about like a wild animal, her tall hat rolling down the stairs. She drove a knee into his crotch with all her might and screamed with sudden pain. Stupid. He flipped her, face down, and twisted her arms behind her back in a painful wrist lock.

"Stop it," he hissed, struggling to keep her from working out of his hold. Glass was crunching under his knees. "It's over."

"Over?" Benezia laughed, tossing her head back to announce a challenge. She went limp in his arms, but he knew it for a feint and replied by twisting her arms further, until she squeaked. But still, she was laughing. "It is not over. It is only beginning! Sovereign is unstoppable. My mind is filled with his light! Everything is clear!"

Nihlus exchanged a look with Liara, who shook her head. No — she was shaking all over, covering her mouth with a hand and looking like she was about to cry. He held her stare, mouthed a silent _it will be okay_ that she had no way of understanding, but somehow she did and it seemed to help. Whispered words sounding suspiciously like "suicide" and "hallucinogenic poison" drifted over to his ears from where Garrus was standing. Nihlus turned to see him rummage through various drawers and cabinets, waking up the lab terminals and scanning with his omni. Good. Then Shepard stepped into his field of view and crouched in front of Benezia's prone form, resting her readied pistol on her knee.

"Who's Sovereign?" she asked, her demeanor suspiciously calm and expressionless. Interrogation mode. "Is that how you call Saren? That's fucking pa—" But then she caught a glimpse of Liara and checked herself, to Nihlus' relief.

"I will not betray him," Benezia said. "You will leave with empty hands. You will… you… ah…"

She became boneless again, and Nihlus wasn't sure what to do. It felt genuine now. Her forehead dropped on the floor with a hurtful thud.

Liara knelt next to them. "Mother?"

Nothing.

She peered into Nihlus pleadingly. "Can you bring her up?"

"Yeah."

Nihlus sat back on his heels and pulled Benezia up, still holding her arms in a secure grip. Her head rolled back on his shoulder.

"Mother," Liara repeated, caressing Benezia's gaunt cheek.

Her eyes opened then, focused on Liara, and blinked as if she were waking from a long, long slumber. "Little Wing," she whispered, smiling.

Liara's face crumpled like wet paper. "I am here, Mother. Are you hurt? What is—"

"You must listen," Benezia said, but her voice lost all of its former authority and turned into barely separable whimpering. Both Liara and Shepard leaned in closer. "Sovereign still whispers in my mind! I can fight its compulsions… briefly… but the indoctrination is strong."

"Indoctrination?"

"Nihlus," Benezia said, turning to look at him, and against all odds, smiled at him too. He tried to smile back. She looked like she was dying. "Saren's ship – the Sovereign – it is alive! It has a mind of its own, and no mercy to temper it… it is a…"

"A Reaper?"

"Yes."

Nihlus nodded. It made sense, it made perfect sense and the realization clicked in place like a long lost part of some enormous puzzle. One of the images from the Prothean vision suddenly sprang to his mind and cleared into something he could almost comprehend: a bright blue sky, a serene afternoon on some distant world, and dozens of warships diving into the atmosphere, leaving thick pillars of smoke laced with red lightning behind. They looked just like the thing he'd seen on Eden Prime.

Sovereign. A Reaper. How long had Saren known about it? A chill colder than death spread under his plates.

"Listen!" Benezia said, pleading. "When I joined Saren, we underestimated Sovereign's influence. The ship can… dominate the minds of its followers. I became indoctrinated to Sovereign's will. The process was subtle… it might have taken days, or weeks… I do not know how quickly I fell. It is true, what you said, Little Wing. I am not myself. It changed me… took my will to fight… but I should have been stronger."

"How are you able to break free of its control now?" Shepard asked.

"Sovereign is a synthetic life-form. More machine than organic. I do not think that they have… feelings. They can never… understand. I was able to hide my feelings… seal that part of me away from indoctrination…" She looked at Nihlus again. "Remember that, when you meet him."

He nodded, biting his tongue. It all made sense to him, too much sense. Like whispers from a dream — from another life — suddenly turning into screams. Focusing on the here and now became a challenge as his conflicted mind started spewing holotapes from recent years, loaded with all those little things that normally wouldn't even cross the threshold and enter awareness; all the little secrets, strange meeting places, all the weird behaviors and ominous declarations–

"It is a terror to be trapped in your mind," Benezia was saying, her voice sinking lower and lower as if she was constantly losing strength. "To always question, never be sure… if your thoughts are truly yours, your decisions… the blood on your hands. I was a willing ally when I landed on this world… Sovereign needed my biotics to communicate with the rachni queen, to learn her secrets… to find the location of the Mu Relay."

"Now we're getting somewhere," Shepard muttered. "Why is this Mu Relay important?"

"I can answer that," Liara said. "The first part, anyway. The Mu Relay is one of the most famous mysteries of astroarcheology. Its position has been lost thousands of years ago, before the Rachni Wars. It was struck by the shock wave from a nearby supernova and it drifted away, disconnected from the relay network. Nobody has been able to locate it since."

"Yeah, yeah. But why does Saren need it?"

Benezia cleared her throat. "He believes it will lead him to the Conduit. I would tell you more if I could, but Sovereign did not share its counsel with us. Not even Saren knows its plans. We are merely servants to its cause."

"The Conduit," Nihlus whispered. Like a word at the tip of the tongue, the alien memory eluded his recall. "I can almost…"

"…taste it," Liara finished.

Their eyes met and he shuddered. "Yeah."

"You have touched the beacon," Benezia breathed, then coughed, though she might have been trying to laugh. Nihlus felt guilty for keeping her restrained. "Foolish… children. Saren would not share the message with me. Feared… the damage it could do."

"Right," Shepard snorted. "He's a real hero. He's done this to you and you still defend him? Talk about indoctrination."

But Benezia shook her head. "Saren is not to blame. He suffers from the same affliction. He believes… like I did… Goddess help me, I still do… Listen, before it is too late! Two thousand years ago, the rachni inhabited that region of the Galaxy… the rachni can share memories across generations. Queens inherit the knowledge of their mothers. I tried to take the location of the Mu Relay from the queen's mind… I was not gentle… but it would have worked, if only I had more time…"

"So you don't have the coordinates?" said Shepard.

"And neither does Saren," Liara muttered.

"Liara…" Benezia whispered. "If there is to be any hope… you must stop him! You must stop _me_ before… I ca… I cannot… It's whispering in my ear… fingers on my spine…!"

She was in a lot of pain, it was plain to see. Perhaps she did take something, or maybe resisting this _indoctrination_ was enough to kill her from within. Nihlus felt his heart was beating in his throat. Was this how it ended? Would it happen to Saren too? He tried to shake the selfish thoughts away as Liara leaned in, stifling a sob. "Mother! Do not give in! Fight it!"

"It is too late… I am not myself… I never will be again. But you… you always… made me proud, Little Wing."

Her voice faded out, and Liara started crying in earnest. But just as Nihlus was about to release his grip, Benezia's body stiffened and started to fight him. Unlike before, _this_ was the savage struggle of a mindless beast that no longer cared about injury or felt pain. His hands reflexively tightened on her wrists and he thought he could feel one of them pop out of its socket. Spirits!

Liara jumped away, shaking her head in disbelief; Shepard stepped back and aimed her pistol at Benezia, who was bucking and twisting like a wild varren. Garrus closed in to help restrain her, but then she started glowing, her biotics spilling over her entire body, burning Nihlus' face, blinding him, sending pins and needles up his arms and chest despite the armor. He had seen this sort of thing exactly once before, and it wasn't going to end well.

"Hit her!" he yelled at no one in particular. "Knock her out!"

But it was too late. In the split second it took Garrus to move in for a strike, the field exploded around her, hurling both Garrus and Nihlus away.

They crashed against the railing around the platform. The force of the blow was enough to dislocate his shoulder on impact and Nihlus bit down on his tongue, his mouth filling with blood, his scream turning into gurgling. On the other side, Garrus was rolling on his back like an overturned beetle, hands gripping his head. _Shit_. Shit shit shit.

And Benezia was free again. Nihlus stole a glimpse of her face and the ultimate resignation on it. She would not be taken alive. Looking into his eyes - as though she could read his mind and see her own despair mirrored therein, she made the motions for a devastating mimetic Nihlus knew, oh Spirits, he knew it all too well for it was one of Saren's favorites, the deadliest and the most beautiful. His vision blurred, but perhaps it was due to the way the biotic field rippled and boiled around her in the most glorious display Nihlus had ever seen. It looked like she was floating, supported by the filaments, standing on thin air. Somehow, despite the danger, he was reminded of Liara, suspended inside that barrier on Therum. For the first time, he saw the resemblance.

Fortunately, someone had kept the presence of mind to stop her before she managed to unleash the Deccretion Disk on them. Two shots to the chest, joined by another before the body hit the ground. Right through the neck, severing the spinal cord. Quick. Clean. Final. Nihlus looked up in time to see Shepard lower her pistol and Liara charge at her with a feral scream and Garrus leap up from the ground to stand between them. And in the midst of all that chaos, all he could think about was if this was how the inevitable confrontation with Saren would end, and whether _he_ would survive to see Saren fall and never rise again.

* * *

><p>#<p> 


	33. The Cipher

#

* * *

><p><strong>The Cipher<strong>

The message caught him on the way down to the lair; everybody stopped at the rude buzzing of his omni.

It was from Benezia. Perhaps the last message he'd ever get from her. He signaled Shiala to wait, and then lingered. As if the act of reading it had the power to sway the outcome of the inevitable encounter. Which way would it sway?

_Read._

Yes. No time to waste. He tapped the message.

"Saren.

It's me, Nihlus.

I regret to inform you that the great Matriarch who spoke of you as a friend to the bitter end lies dead. Thankfully, not by my hand, though it could have easily turned out that way. Wouldn't want the blood of someone who lived a thousand years on my hands with no good reason. An entire millennium of experience and creativity and wisdom — wasted. Gone forever. And why?

That's what I'd like to know, Saren. Why?

Before she died — and I believe she'd have wanted me to tell you that she embraced her end without fear and regret — she said you are not to blame. She said there's some mind-altering device aboard that ship you command. Or that commands you, as it might turn out. Being the meticulous, paranoid son of a bitch you are, I bet you're well aware of this… _indoctrination_ thing. But you're also an arrogant bastard who probably thinks he's so fucking special that he won't be affected.

Wake the fuck up! It was too late for Benezia, but maybe it's not too late for you. Just get the fuck out of there and we'll find a way to deal with this mess, like we always do. Together.

I'm not _asking_ you. I'm giving you an ultimatum.

Either surrender — or I'll make you."

Saren read and re-read, breathing deeper and deeper, clenching his jaw harder and harder. Yes, Nihlus. That is what I would l like to know too. Why? Why did you have to kill her — before she could complete her mission? It was _you_ who shed that thousand-year-old blood with no good reason, not _I_. My reasons —

_Our reasons._

— yes, our reasons — but why bother trying to explain something you can never comprehend? What is one life, one thousand years, compared to the future of the entire galaxy? So quick to judge, so slow to understand! Without the coordinates, the people you are so bent on saving will die stupid, meaningless deaths. As will you. Damn it to hell and back, Kryik!

"Sir?" Shiala said, cautiously.

It was unnecessary. The pain had already warned him: talontips breaking through the palm of his combat glove, biting into the mangled flesh below. He snarled at her, the desire to strike her almost more than he could bear. It was her fault too. Why hadn't she stayed with Benezia? It wasn't like _he_ had been in need of help and protection. Shiala might have turned the tide, might have _slowed_ it, might have made the sacrifice meaningful.

The echoes of his growls rolled back to him from the damp walls around them like the gurgling of lava under the surface of black, cracked stone. It was unacceptable, this unstable behavior, swinging between rage and sentimentality; a volcano just waiting to erupt. He was losing grip, and of all the times when it could have, or had happened, this was the most inopportune. With hardly any allies left, he could not afford to be out of control.

_Focus._

Yes. He needed to focus. To get busy, to make progress. That was what he had always been good at, after all. More than good. The best in generations. Why he had been chosen, and not someone else. Because he could set his feelings aside and get the job done, regardless of the cost.

_It will be worth it._

Yes. He cleared his throat. Shiala was looking at him, something annoyingly reminiscent of worry breaking through her serious expression, reminding him of Nihlus in his deceptively submissive moods.

"Nothing that concerns you," he said. "How much further?" Floor after identical floor, the moldy concrete staircase seemed to go on infinitely and the slowly diminishing light had been the only indication of their progress. And Saren was fresh out of patience.

"It's right here, sir."

She led the way through a dark passage and into a circular shaft that ran the height of the spire. Gray daylight was beaming from a pinprick of painful whiteness far above, and suffocating in the dusty darkness below. The Thorian was suspended in the center. A huge, shapeless mass like a monstrous, gnarled root, hanging from clusters of torso-thick tendrils attached to the walls.

Whatever Saren had expected, it wasn't this. He sniffed the stale air, pressing his mandibles close together to ward off a display of disgust. A survey of the creature and the surroundings revealed a number of ways to threaten or destroy it. Fire would do. Cutting tendrils. Letting the geth crawl atop its body and cut their way inside if his foul mood persisted. He glanced down the dim abyss, imagining how the humans would have screamed, had he had the foresight to execute them _here_ by throwing them in, one by one.

If he were to throw himself over the edge… would _he_ embrace his end without fear and regret? To just shut his eyes and rest. Lean back. Be free of responsibilities and expectations, once and for all. He had never asked for this. Never wanted to be a savior. He had never…

_No other could do it._

Yes. It seems more and more like it.

He opened his eyes and stared defiantly into the depths. He would take that plunge sooner or later. Benezia's demise was as inevitable as his own. It was her failure that was making him angry and distraught. To die was one thing. To die for nothing…

A silent oath, a voiceless whisper: _I will not fail._

_We know._

"Have you spoken to it yet?" The echoes of his question undulated up and down through the shaft.

Shiala walked to a place where a cluster of tendrils was growing into the wall. Saren followed, after signaling the geth to remain at the entrance.

"I have only touched the surface, sir," she said as she put a hand on one of the roots. The creature reacted, producing a deep groan that was _felt_ rather than heard, reverberating through the walls. "But I know it will cooperate."

The Thorian made a noise of a higher pitch, then grew quiet.

"Tell me everything."

"Yes, sir. May I?"

Saren nodded and they both sat down on the cold stone floor.

"The Thorian learns by _absorbing_. It needs to consume the consciousness of a being in order to control others of its kind. This one has consumed many humans, and before that, Protheans."

"Can it tell us where to look for the beacon?"

"It can do a lot more than that, sir. The Thorian stores everything it eats. It possesses the intact memories of living Protheans. The knowledge it needs, the knowledge it has, is the sum and essence of their species, of their culture, views, beliefs, everything! It calls this knowledge the Cipher."

Saren narrowed his eyes at her. "The Cipher."

"Sir," she whispered, leaning closer. "It can make you see through the eyes of a Prothean."

He blinked, then looked at the knotted mass with a newfound appreciation. "It can help me understand the message. But how?"

"Through me," she said, eyes sparkling with excitement. "The Thorian is telepathic. I can communicate with it almost without effort and… Sir, it has been craving for the company of someone like that since the Exodus. It will give you everything you need, if… if you agree to leave me here with it."

She sounded almost like she wanted it, and Saren frowned, observing her with more care. The ExoGeni scientists said it took a week or more for the spores to take over a human mind, but perhaps it was faster with the asari. Perhaps Shiala was susceptible to the Thorian's control the same way Benezia and all her followers had turned out to be intolerant to Sovereign's indoctrination.

Would it be a gentler fate? To be left at the mercy of the Thorian — instead of slowly losing her mind and eventually turning into nothing more than a husk? What would Benezia have wanted for her?

A strange turn of thought, and he began to wonder what Benezia would have wanted him to do if he met her daughter as an enemy. Kill her swiftly, with the mercy that he had not been able to bestow on Nihlus … or introduce her to Sovereign? As a replacement? To walk in her mother's steps? Like he was walking in his brother's?

_Irrelevant._

Yes. Indeed. Benezia was dead, and her wishes were of as little consequence in this matter as were Shiala's, or his own. Or this creature's. "It will give me everything I need one way or another," he said in a voice that carried, wondering if it could hear and understand.

"Yes, sir," Shiala smiled nervously. "But perhaps… Sir, when I touched its mind… I saw the Reapers. They are… it was…" She seemed to be struggling for words, or for the ability to utter them. Saren's frown deepened as she tried to explain through helpless gesticulation.

"What?"

"They _lie_, sir," she managed at last, eyes filling with tears of effort. "Sovereign… it's _lying_ to us."

_Nonsense._

"Nonsense."

She shook her head, striking the violet trails from her cheeks. "I'm sorry, sir. It's difficult to explain. It is like… deeply seeded… one idea and… change this… sense, am I?"

Saren blinked at her, then glanced down at his omni. A translator glitch? Her lips were moving but the words weren't getting to him. Instead, he could feel the familiar warmth rising up his spine, spreading inside his chest, under his arms, between his legs, as if someone was pouring acid down his main artery. What now? Why? He swallowed, pushing back the rush of panic.

"What?" he repeated, and his own voice sounded distant, as if he were speaking from behind a semi-transparent mirror, locked away inside a padded interrogation room. Scream and beat all you like. No one can hear you.

"I said… single thought… that is how it… just turn… switch on or off. Sir? Are you alright?"

Am I? His entire body had become rigid in the anticipation for pain, every fiber pulled taut, throat dry and sticky, heart beating wildly. He had to remind himself to breathe. But the pain didn't come. He managed to relax.

He hadn't heard a damn word. He started to ask her to repeat, but his mouth clicked shut.

_The Cipher._

Yes, of course. That was why they were there, wasn't it? He nodded, although he was far from satisfied. First the arm, and now the translators? If only he could disassemble his body, take out all the implants, check and clean them the way he cleaned his weapons after every use, perhaps he wouldn't have found himself thinking about it as if it were an unreliable piece of equipment.

"I'm fine," he said with a raspy voice. "Let us do this."

Shiala positioned herself so that she could lay one hand over the tendrils. The other she offered to Saren. "Have you done this before, sir?"

"Yes."

He hesitated for another moment, then took off his right glove and gave her his hand. Her skin was warm and soft, alive. How long had it been since he touched another living thing with his bare hand? And what did it matter? Nonsense, nonsense all around. He closed his eyes, opening his mind to the intrusion. How long had it been since he touched the soul of an asari?

The thing he touched had nothing to do with Shiala's soul.

It hit him like a fist in the face, leaving blotches of fluorescent paint inside his eyelids and a dull ringing echoing through his skull. The same malignant force that burned the Prothean message into his cortex was now overloading all his senses with alien input and it burned, it burned! Worse than the beacons, much worse, and longer, long enough to throb and pulse, sending all other sensations to oblivion. He was dimly aware of biting down on his tongue, of his mouth filling with blood. A strange wish to gouge his own eyes out made him lift his left hand up because it couldn't be taken, it couldn't be taken!

It stopped as suddenly as it had started, or perhaps he was losing consciousness, or perhaps he had lost it already. He was drifting away and above. One of those priceless moments of complete serenity, complete clarity. His spirit became unhinged from his body and he was flying on the wings of unblemished euphoria, navigating the forest of living spires with dreamlike ease. Thousands of windows, lighting up to greet the evening. The Prothean megalopolis, teeming with life, hope, and endless possibilities. A bloated, orange sun setting over it, caressing it with the last rays of a dying day.

Until something eclipsed it. Something descending at a supersonic velocity. The shock wave stole the air from under his wings a split second before the red eye of a Reaper looked his way. And the dream combusted.

Saren opened his eyes, wondering if he had shouted out loud. Traces of euphoria still lingered inside his mind. Spirits of the Winds! The pain it had started and ended with was _nothing_ compared to that magnificent feeling, the freedom, the flying! He could see now why Shiala would want to stay. He could see…

Several things.

The geth were burning the Thorian's tendrils with flamethrowers. The creature was producing desperate, pained sounds that were making Saren's vocal cavity resonate in a sickening way. Who told them to do that?

He turned to look at Shiala, but she wasn't located where he had expected her. She was to his left now. Hanging limply from his hand, his fingers curled around her neck. He released her immediately, but of course it was too late. Her body hit the floor like a sack of omnigel. Saren didn't need to check her pulse to know that she was dead.

Then he noted the smell of burnt flesh. The Thorian hadn't been on fire long enough for the smoke to reach the spot where Saren was standing. The smell was coming from behind him. When he turned, the movement hurt. He hurriedly wormed a finger under his cowl. The primary biotic implant, hidden just under his right mandible, stung his finger when he touched it. It had shorted out and fused with the amplifier, incinerating a good bit of surrounding tissue.

Two bundles of tendrils that had been holding the Thorian aloft came undone at almost the same time. Saren watched it sway on the last one for several long, agonizing beats, then fall off without another sound. The geth lowered their weapons. Many seconds of utter silence passed before the sound of the creature's immense body, splattering against the unseen bottom of the spire, came echoing up the shaft.

Saren swallowed the bile that shot up his throat and marched out of the chamber without once turning back.

* * *

><p>#<p> 


	34. Dead Hearts 1

#

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><p><strong>Dead Hearts I<strong>

Tali cursed aloud, then remembered where she was and quickly glanced left and right. Phew. Nobody within earshot. There were more people in the hangar than usual, but they all seemed preoccupied. Ashley and Crewman Harris were sparring just outside Wrex's cubicle. Wrex was in; he was cleaning his weapons and humming some horribly dissonant tune. He looked up from time to time, prompted by grunts and profanities issuing from the combatants. On the other side, near the drawbridge, Donnelly and Kaidan were leaning over the microfacturing unit, mostly just frowning and shrugging, and only occasionally erupting in short bursts of conversation.

The troublesome thing had been producing brittle slabs of ammo and no two people aboard could agree on the most likely reason why. Impurities in the ingredients? Mechanical malfunction? Stray gas bubbles in the mixing chamber? Sediment? A roundoff error in the mass effect stabilizing routines?

"But that would have showed earlier," Tali muttered to herself, looking back at the code displayed on her omni. _She_ was convinced it was a bug in the unit's VI. Unfortunately, she had managed to convince Shepard too — and had subsequently been assigned to find and fix it. She had been poring over the code the whole day; she knew it by heart by now… or did she? Hmm. Was that bracket supposed to be there, or _there_? Let's see…

She caught herself swaying this way and that to the rhythm of Wrex's tune while the module was compiling. Her attention was letting up. Like all puzzles, this had been a challenge in the beginning, but the time wasted in trying out increasingly desperate ideas had turned it into a frustration. She was a mechanic, not a programmer. The concept of staring at a piece of code for hours, then suddenly exclaiming "Ah-ha!", changing one digit, and calling it a day was as alien to her as spending half a day in the gym and the other half at target-practice.

The code compiled. She pressed the green button and on the other end of the hangar, the unit came to life, drowning out Wrex's singing with a few seconds of monotone, low-pitched droning. The new slab fell into the empty receiving chamber with a loud clank, but only Kaidan and Donnelly were paying attention. Kaidan slid the slab inside the charger of the Lancer they had been using for tests. It entered smoothly, but when he tried to click the charger back into position, it got stuck halfway and the rifle let out the hated beep of doom.

He shook his head in her direction but she was already cursing between her teeth. She had only agreed to look into the mystery of the microfacturing unit because Garrus had asked her, and he hadn't even asked her _nicely_. Where was _he_ while she was slaving over it? Watching the security feed from the women's washroom with Joker? Bosh'tet!

Kaidan extended the charger on the rifle again, and the cringe-worthy dinging produced by pieces of slab hitting the floor echoed through the hangar. Donnelly kicked one before it reached the ground, cursed — something about intercourse between someone's mother and some kind of a domesticated animal from Earth — and at the same time, Crewman Harris let out a particularly pained moan. Tali turned to look. Ashley was apologizing; at least, the tone of her voice was apologetic. Most of her words still translated as profanities. Then, she took a towel to help stop the bleeding from the poor man's nose. There was a lot of dark, dense blood. On Ashley's bare hands. Unease and anger mixed into faint nausea inside Tali's guts. She had to remind herself that humans weren't likely to contract diseases from simple exposure to the blood of their own kind.

But the anger wouldn't go away even when she suppressed the disgust. She was as nervous as everyone else. It was like a contagion, spreading by touch; a careless shoulder hitting you in the narrow hallway, or a slap of a meaty human hand on your butt. Or by sound; thriving on all the hushed whispers, secrets, and suspicions, transmitted through numerous curses, kicks and shouts. Or perhaps it was carried by photons themselves, because it had obviously affected her, too. Never mind her suit, her mask, her air filters, and, most importantly, her isolation from recent events.

She dismissed the code listing and heaved a tired sigh. If there was a bug in the VI, it would be there tomorrow as well. There were things to make and do with the new geth samples from Noveria. She would go to her cabin…

On second thought, no, she wouldn't. Liara was in the cabin. And Liara was not to be disturbed, by explicit orders from Shepard.

Tali slouched back in the uncomfortable chair. Against all odds, Liara had become dear to her, and her plight touched her deeply. To witness your only parent die a violent death was bad enough; to be part of what caused it — even in the most circumstantial way — was unimaginable. Poor Liara. She hadn't spoken to anyone since the ground team returned from Peak 15. When they had come aboard, she had been so pale that Tali had barely recognized her face.

A shudder went down her spine and she cursed again, albeit to herself, as the suit turned on the heaters. The damn thing needed some serious calibrations. She brought up her omni to turn the heating off just in time to see an incoming message. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ashley and Kaidan bring up their omnis too.

"Senior crew meeting in Comm Room in ten minutes. Attendance mandatory, especially for the non-human crew. Shepard out."

A minute later, the heaters in her suit finally went to standby — probably on account of her accelerated heartbeat when she ran into Garrus in the crew-deck hallway. Tali stopped short and held her breath along with her greeting. He hadn't seen her. He was standing in front of the door to his own cabin, but it didn't look like he was about to go in. He was just standing there, breathing. She could see his chest heave, and his mandibles work, and his eyes stare the door down like an enemy. Then, suddenly, he grew completely motionless and reached for the lock.

He didn't get to it in time. The door lit up yellow from the inside. Garrus flinched as if he'd burned his hand, and hurried down the corridor, never turning back.

Nihlus appeared behind the open door.

"Oh, hi," he said, and smiled. His voice wasn't smiling, though. "Going to the meeting?"

"Yes," she said distractedly, one eye still on Garrus' back, disappearing at the first junction. She started to tell Nihlus about what she'd just witnessed, but somehow couldn't.

"Come on," she said instead. "The Commander doesn't like to wait."

#

Garrus surveyed the faces in the circle.

To his right was Wrex, reclining comfortably in a chair that was squeaking under his weight and drowsing. "Got to sleep wherever and whenever you can if you want to live to be a thousand," he'd confided a few days back when Garrus had found him snoring in the Mako. The old krogan didn't give a damn for the interpersonal drama that was likely to escalate into something ugly during the next half an hour or so.

Next to Wrex was Alenko. He looked completely abstracted from the situation at hand; bored, even, if not for his eyes, calmly focused on an unmoving point on the floor. Patient, waiting. Garrus had seen his share of humans like that, enduring entire nights cuffed to the table in the interrogation room, wearing that carefully maintained appearance of resignation no matter what threats were issued, what tricks tried. Some would talk after being beaten. But Alenko was the type who could take more than most cops would be comfortable dealing. Garrus was sure of it. And he didn't like it. He didn't like people you had to pry opinions from. Peacemakers, conciliators, negotiators. Politicians. People striving to agree with everyone. To sit on all chairs at once.

His eyes shot across the room before he could stop himself. Had they been equipped with microscopic lasers, they'd have cut Nihlus in half. Nihlus wasn't looking at him. He was looking through the dark viewport, as distant as the passing stars. Garrus took a deep breath, pushing the anger back. Now was not the time.

Next to Alenko sat Williams. What a stark contrast. She was fidgeting and glancing around with those nervous, paranoid, black eyes of hers. It looked like the meeting announcement interrupted her in the middle of training: the sleeveless shirt she was wearing had dark patches of sweat under her arms and breasts, and her fingers were dirty. Garrus sniffed discretely. Blood and hormones, unmistakably feminine. He wouldn't spar with her at this time of the cycle. Not that he'd spar with any of the humans on board. Talon-marks on human skin would be looking for trouble even if there wasn't so much tension all around.

Williams didn't mind the tension. On the contrary. She was primed for a fight, and although Garrus didn't like that either, he could at least understand, and begrudgingly respect it. _She_ never hesitated to speak her mind, no matter the consequences. Presently she was watching Liara across the room and making grimaces of annoyance and resentment without as much as a hint of effort to hide her displeasure.

For poor Liara looked horrible. The dark circles under her eyes extended all the way down over her cheekbones, now an unhealthy hue of azure; her lips were pale and dry, and her hands were constantly shaking. She had been refusing food, drink and company since they had returned from Noveria. When her wondering, blank stare crossed paths with Garrus' eyes, she looked away in a hurry. She had gotten it inside her head that Garrus was Shepard's ally, maybe because of the way they had been paired up during the mission. And in being Shepard's ally, he partook of the blame for her mother's violent death.

This time when he looked, Nihlus was looking back. Garrus' heart rate jumped, stubborn hopes rising inside him and entangling with the hurt and anger into something that didn't belong on a staff meeting. Hell, it didn't belong anywhere outside Tali's romance novels. He shook his head disapprovingly, and when Nihlus inclined his own, asking a silent question, he dismissed it with a flick of the mandible. Now was not the time.

He focused on Tali instead. She was facing him, but that was a broad term. In some lights, or rather, some shadows, her eyes could be made out as two hazy, almond-shaped highlights, blinking not all that often. Now, they were hidden. She could have been watching him, and he had the idea that the look in her eyes wouldn't be benevolent. Perhaps it was something about her posture, the nervous knitting of her fingers. He made a mental note to drop by her later. Maybe tell her about that air filter mod for her mask that he'd been working on before Noveria. Or maybe just thank her for getting that microfacturing unit thing off his plate.

Far too much crap on his plate.

He glanced at his omni. Just as he was about to break the silence and announce that Shepard was now more than ten minutes late, the door swished open and she entered. Wrex jerked from his sleep, and Garrus was as amused as always to see Alenko twitch, as if to stand up and salute. Shepard was very relaxed regarding regulations and formalities; too relaxed, in the whispered opinions of more than a few humans, wishing for the good old times under Anderson's command. _His_ opinion was that none of them had any business complaining. Shepard was a fierce warrior and a fine commander.

"Pressly just confirmed," she said. "There's a planetary system capable of hosting a mass relay at the coordinates we got from the rachni queen." She glanced at Liara. As far as Garrus could read human faces, her intent was to give credit where it was due. Without Liara's help, communicating with the queen would have been impossible. Garrus wasn't entirely sure what to make of Nihlus' decision to release the creature. Both Shepard and he argued on the side of destroying the queen along with her brood, but Nihlus wouldn't hear of it, and Liara backed him up, going as far as to promise the freedom to the queen in exchange for information.

She didn't deign to look at Shepard and turned away to stare through the viewport instead. Shepard's face darkened, but she didn't comment.

"How long will it take to get there?" said Tali.

"A week. The nearest relay is almost a parsec away."

"That's near the limit of our fuel supply," muttered Alenko. He shrugged when nobody spoke back. "It's a risk in any case. For all we know, the relay might be damaged, or worse, it might _look_ undamaged, and send us god knows where. We don't even know where it's _supposed_ to lead."

"Ilos."

Everybody turned to Liara, then remained motionless for a few beats in the silence that followed her one, scratchy word. She cleared her throat.

"The Mu Relay leads to Ilos."

Shepard frowned, then brought up the auxiliary star map and typed something in. "Nothing under that name," she muttered. "Maybe I mistyped. What did you call it again?"

"Ilos," Nihlus said. "Come on Shepard. You must have heard of it."

"Everybody knows about Ilos," Tali agreed.

"Hell, even I know about it," Ashley said. "It's like Atlantis. In space."

Shepard grunted, turning to scrutinize Liara. "Some long lost place?"

"The dream of every archaeologist." Liara's chin trembled, and she averted her eyes from Shepard's inquisitive gaze. "But of course Kaidan is right. We should not assume the relay is still functional, or if it is, that it will be functioning correctly."

"And even if it is, and we go through," Alenko said, "we still don't know what it is we're looking for."

"The Conduit," Nihlus said.

"Well, yes. But we don't know what that is, or if it's even real."

"Oh, it's real. Saren wouldn't be out looking for some fantasy construct." Nihlus looked down at his hands, folded in his lap. "At least not the Saren I know."

"Whatever it is, if it doesn't happen to be floating right next to the relay on the other side, going through will do us little good," said Williams, then snorted. "Unless we're ready to do a month's worth of planet scanning."

Shepard was nodding. "Agreed. Too many unknowns." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "So, what's out next step? Nihlus? Any ideas?"

Nihlus shifted uncomfortably, knotting his fingers. "Spirits, I wish these things that are playing in my head _all the fucking time_ made some sense. It's like something you're trying to remember, and it's at the tip of your tongue but no matter what you try – thinking about it, not thinking about it, sleeping on it – it refuses to come out." He looked up at Shepard now, then at Alenko. "I _know_ the Conduit is real, all right? I can't tell you what it is, but I know it's not a place, nor a ship, nor a weapon. It's like… like it's too complex to name, you know?"

But nobody did, and when their eyes met, Garrus could only lift his browplate at the desperate plead for understanding. It wasn't that he didn't _believe_ Nihlus; he just didn't — well, it wasn't actually a matter of not trusting him, but—

"Yeah," Nihlus said after finding no support on the other faces either. He shook his head. "Still doesn't help us actually find it."

"Come on, Nihlus," Shepard said. "You know what I meant. Give us _something_. What's Saren's next step?"

"You have no idea what you're asking," Liara whispered and all eyes turned to see her chin trembling again. Going to Noveria had been her suggestion.

"Here we go again," Williams sighed, rolling her eyes. "How about you just say what's on your mind and be done with it already? Or should I say it for you?"

"Come on, Ash," Alenko said in a low voice, "don't be—"

"A bitch? Well I am. This shit is getting ridiculous. Everyone tiptoeing around her like she's some fucking princess. Look, hon," she addressed Liara directly, "here's the naked truth: you volunteered for this. We could have dropped you anywhere, but noooo. You wanted to see some action. Big men with big guns. And you got your share. So how about—"

"That's enough," Shepard said. "Williams, stand down. This is between Liara and me. And if she doesn't want to speak—"

"You could have shot her in the shoulder," Liara gritted, still stubbornly looking through the viewport. "You could have shot her in the leg. You didn't have to kill her. What else is there to say?"

"She wasn't herself. Didn't you hear a word of what she was saying? She said she'd never be herself again. She called her life a terror, for God's sake."

Finally Liara turned, eyes suddenly boring into Shepard in a dark, dangerous way, and Garrus sat up, unsure what he was supposed to do if a fight broke out. Liara was a trained biotic, and in such close quarters…

"Don't you dare," she said in a trembling, undulating voice. "Don't you dare pretend you did it out of mercy. You killed her to take revenge for Eden Prime and Therum and we all know it. You're nothing but a cold blooded killer, Shepard. Just like him!" And she laughed hysterically. "Just like Saren."

An electrified silence stilled around them. Liara kept bulging her bloodshot eyes at Shepard, who finally lowered her head.

Nihlus ran a hand over his face. "About that," he said. "Don't know if you heard about it from the Alliance channels… Saren's been to Feros while we were on Noveria."

All the humans jumped at the declaration, but it took Garrus a second longer to remember they had a colony there. "What happened?" he asked.

"No one lived to tell." Nihlus smiled, and Garrus frowned. To say the smile was mirthless would be an understatement. It was dead and decaying and deeply disturbing and Garrus felt like punching Nihlus in the face to wipe it away.

"Keelah," Tali whispered.

"Nihlus," Shepard said after a while, somewhat pale and uncharacteristically serious. "You've got to help us stop him."

"You mean, kill him," Liara said and covered her face, but she couldn't hide the way her shoulders started shaking.

Shepard didn't reply, holding Nihlus' gaze. Garrus looked from her, to Nihlus, to her again. Like at a clawball match. The question was fair, and it _was_ the reason they were all traveling together. If Nihlus refused to give information, he'd be stepping over to Saren's side, and there was no telling what Shepard would do in that case. And Garrus realized that, despite everything, he wasn't sure what _he_ would do in that case either. Which was more than a little troubling. But the silence didn't last long enough for him to untie that particular knot of doubts and dubious desires.

Nihlus tucked his mandibles and made another circle around the room, looking for support, failing to find any. Somehow his hand found a way to the back of Liara's neck. Garrus couldn't ward off a snort of disgust, but nobody was paying attention. They were all waiting for Nihlus to speak up.

"I'll talk to you in private," he said to Shepard in the end. Everyone seemed to slouch down and Garrus shook his head. Not worth the lead-up.

Shepard kept staring at him for several more seconds. Then she nodded, though Garrus doubted it convinced anyone that she was satisfied with the answer. When she glanced at him, he could swear he could hear the wheels turning, mirroring his own thoughts.

_Last chance._

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><p><em>#<br>_


	35. Dead Hearts 2

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* * *

><p><strong>Dead Hearts II<strong>

Everyone seemed reluctant to leave the Comm Room. Everyone except Wrex, who was already out the door. The humans dragged their feet, looked from Shepard to Nihlus and back, and exchanged uncertain glances as if they weren't sure if the meeting was over. They weren't the only ones suffering from the impression that it _wasn't_. Tali stood next to the door, just outside the range of the proximity sensors, bending her fingers in uncomfortable ways and unmistakably staring at Garrus. But Garrus wasn't looking back; he was saying something to Shepard, something quiet and secret-like, whispering right into her soft, meaty ear in a way that made wisps of her hair dance in his breath. Shepard wasn't listening. She was focused on Liara with a strange expression of red-alert wariness coupled with motherly concern. But Liara wasn't aware of it; she was looking at Nihlus expectantly, pleadingly, just about ready to fall in his arms and open the deep, dark well of her soul to him again. For real, this time, her eyes were saying. Swim, and perhaps drown together in the warm, weightless void.

Nihlus wasn't interested. All he wanted was for everyone to get the fuck out already so he could check his messages. The hope that Saren would answer his challenge was eating him alive. Sure, he could have elbowed his way out and gone back to his cabin, but rudeness would have attracted attention. Attention was the last thing he needed. Too many eyes followed his every damn move already. Garrus, Shepard, Liara. He cared little. They were no longer his team.

Ha. They had never _been_ his. They had never been a _team_ either.

He realized his fingers had been playing with something, and looked down. The control panel for the viewports stared back at him with the typical indifference of a machine. The commands were in a human script, but the arrangement was the same as on any turian vessel. He couldn't remember what he wanted with them. He tapped an icon at random.

The viewports started to close. Before Nihlus got to say _I'm sorry_, everyone was suddenly in motion. Tali turned on her heels and marched down the corridor. Garrus cleared his throat to get Shepard's attention — but leaning down as he was, she bumped her forehead against his chin, which resulted in a mess of awkward smiles and apologies. Williams snorted at that and muttered something that Nihlus didn't quite catch, but it sounded nasty enough for Alenko to grab her arm and direct her towards the exit, shaking his head. The commotion seemed to sober Liara up, too; out of the corner of his eye, Nihlus saw her rub her forehead and stalk out after the humans.

"See me later in my quarters," Shepard told Garrus, and hurried out as well.

Nihlus won a bet with himself when Garrus didn't follow. After the door closed behind Shepard's back, they stood in motionless silence for a long time, tension gathering between them even though they didn't so much as _look _at one another. There was no need. A thick aura of wordless accusations had been spreading around Garrus ever since they had landed on Noveria. Nihlus, too, had probably been wearing his own dark little cloud of emotional exhaustion. Paranoia, even. He knew it was his stress talking, but he could swear he was being watched all the fucking time. Watched, and judged.

Anger bubbled up from his stomach. Why the fuck couldn't they just give him a fucking second to check his fucking messages? Was it so much to ask for? A moment of peace and privacy, a moment for himself, without anyone asking him for anything? For Spirits' sake!

"Want me to leave you alone?" said Garrus, quietly. When Nihlus looked up, barely biting back a bitter, bitter, yes, _yes_, please leave me the fuck alone — he was struck by that elusive feeling humans called _deja vu_. Instead of Garrus, there _he _was, ten years ago, a whole life ago, trying to be kind, trying his fucking best to _not_ anger the other; and instead of present-day-him, there was Saren, steaming with anger from having his innermost soul, guarded so carefully against all others, suddenly laid open for some wide-eyed recruit who just kept asking all the wrong questions.

All the right questions.

His heart skipped a beat. And another. He took a deep breath. The anger had wilted away, leaving a huge, black hole behind and damn, it wasn't easy, filling it with air, but he had to try. Because he was better than that. Spirits forgive him, he _had _to be better than that.

"No," he mouthed, following it up with a weak shake of his head.

Garrus nodded, then gestured at Nihlus' left hand. "Go ahead. Don't mind me."

Nihlus laughed. "You knew."

"Well." Garrus shifted, looking almost embarrassed. "You know what they say. Once a cop, always a cop."

"Did you tell Shepard?"

"Of course not. She'd throw you out the airlock, and she'd have every right to do it." He shook his head. "There's more truth in that always-a-cop bullshit than I want to admit. I still can't believe I'm doing this. You better tell me it was worth it."

Nihlus swallowed a hard knot that had been building in his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, but just couldn't. The gratitude, the humility, the nagging feeling that he had done nothing, _nothing_ to deserve the faith of this honorable man, faith and admiration and… _fuck_… love. And all the while, _his_ faith, admiration and love were invested into Saren. No matter what. Not even a fucking round to the face could get them out of his head.

He couldn't say any of it, but some must have gotten out anyway, through whatever his face looked like, through the childish trembling of his mandibles, because Garrus turned away to avoid it. Nihlus also wanted to say that he was sorry, that he was so sorry for putting Garrus in this disgusting situation, for being anything but the hero he was expected to be, but he knew his voice would break and that would be too much.

So instead, he turned on the damn omni. He'd stolen it from Benezia's body in the midst of the chaos, certain that nobody had been looking at him because they'd been so focused on Liara. He had hidden it. He had rigged it to transmit their coordinates. He had bullied his way through the Normandy's security, overriding Alliance safety protocols with his Spectre authorizations. He hadn't told Liara about it, even though there were a lot of private things backed up in local storage. Poems, letters, manuscripts. The legacy of a Matriarch, kept secret from her own daughter. And for what? For that last little shred of hope, the little flame keeping his blood warm.

_I was able to hide my feelings… seal that part of me away from indoctrination… Remember that, when you meet him._

For a brief moment, his whole being was invested into wishing a reply from Saren directly from the realm of fantasy into hard, factual existence. There _will_ be a new-message notification waiting for him. He could almost see it, the elegant little icon of a bird's wing, blinking attractively, irresistibly. It _will_ be a reply from Saren and it _will_ be pregnant with all the words of affection Nihlus had been coveting for years. He could almost hear them, he could almost feel Saren's hot breath on his ear, whispering.

_Yes, Nihlus, you are right._ Ha, that would be a first. Or, better yet: _Yes. I will do as you say._ Spirits, that could give him an instant orgasm. But the best of all would surely be: _I will do it, Nihlus. I will do it — for you._

He clenched his teeth, and opened his eyes.

Nothing.

"Damn it," he muttered to himself. Memories of countless situations just like this one flooded him with bitterness and anger anew. "If you won't say yes, be a man and say _no_, for fuck's sake."

But the empty inbox didn't say a thing.

"I guess that's a no," said Garrus, making Nihlus jump. He had forgotten he wasn't alone.

"I thought…" he started, stopped, shook his head. "I hoped." He had known better than to _expect_ a reply. Let alone a positive reply. But he had hoped for something. Anything. Any sign of life, of a willingness to communicate, if not to cooperate. He had spent hours putting together that short message. Rewritten it a dozen times, weighing every word, every phrase, adding and deleting whole paragraphs, writing them again, deleting them again, aiming for maximum effect — all under the assumption that he _knew_ whom he was addressing, deep down under all the walls and fences. What Saren valued, what he feared. Whom he loved.

No reply meant no effect. And that meant his assumption had been flawed.

"It hasn't been that long," Garrus said. "Give it some more time?"

"Maybe." But he didn't believe it. With each passing day, hour, and now, minute, the little flame was dying out.

It was simple, really. If his assumption was flawed, if all the years of intimacy and trust had been no more than figments of his imagination, if the man he had bared his soul to had been just a figment of his imagination, a construct of his blind optimism and his refusal to face a darker reality — if his assumption was flawed, then everything was up in the air, everything was in question. His entire adult life, his career, his faith in his own sanity.

Had _any_ of it ever been real?

Suddenly, he had to know. He no longer cared that he was not alone. His fingers were cold as ice, his hand trembling, and when he took the little plastic case out of his left pocket, it and a whole mess of other nonsense clattered to the floor. He knelt down, but Garrus was faster. Handed him the case. Nihlus snatched it jealously, perhaps even growled, and immediately hated himself for it.

This was it: everything was falling apart. He could feel it. The very fabric of his existence was unravelling. And the aimlessly dangling threads were kept together solely by the thing inside the case.

There was nothing inside the case.

#

"I'm sorry, Shepard, but my hands are tied. There's nothing I can do short of going to the Council again and accusing yet another Spectre of going rogue. And you saw how that went last time."

Shepard bit down hard on the inside of her cheek. Anderson looked like he hadn't heard anything she'd told him. He was seated at a fancy desk, with a fancy view of the Presidium shining through a fancy panoramic window behind his back. Still at the Embassy. Pushing papers. His attention had been divided between her and three different datapads that he frequently checked for updates.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying to keep her voice level, "but this is still an Alliance ship and I have a duty to our people. You can't expect me to just sit on my hands while Nihlus sabotages the mission. _He tried to transmit our position and heading to the enemy_. You might as well just tell me to resign command and let him do whatever the hell he wants. Sir."

Anderson pushed his datapads aside and leaned closer to the scanner. "Listen, Shepard. You know I don't like this any more than you do. Taking Nihlus along was your idea, remember? And I agreed to it because _you_ persuaded me it was the only way to stay in the loop. From where I'm standing, nothing has changed. You know what we're dealing with. No one is in a better position to keep an eye on things than you are. And if worst comes to worst…" He paused to give her a pointed look. "I trust you'll handle the situation in the way that's best for humanity."

The words made her hair stand on end. She'd heard such words before. Seen such stares. A lifetime of meaning contained in a single glance.

_God, not this shit again._

But the stare lingered, gaining intensity, demanding a response. She swallowed so hard it hurt. Frowned. Saluted. So he'd know this _wasn't_ her idea.

"Yes, sir. Understood."

"Good. Anderson out."

She barely had time to put her hand down when the door beeped. So soon? A quick glance at her omni: not even ten minutes had passed since the end of that disaster of a meeting.

Vakarian was standing in the doorway, looking all sorts of uncomfortable. "Commander."

Shepard gestured for him to come in. But he remained silent for several long seconds after the door had closed behind him, looking like he was breaking his hands behind his back.

"What's the matter, Garrus? Something bothering you?"

"Hmm," he muttered. "Mmm."

She stood motionless, waiting, searching his alien eyes for clues. He gave none. Alright. She crossed her arms and cleared her throat. "Is this about Nihlus?"

A sharp, ice-cold glance. But nothing else.

"Because I already know about Benezia's omni and his ploy with the frequencies," she added.

And finally, a reaction. Not the one she expected, though.

"Figures," Garrus said. "You're way better than he is."

"At what?"

"Well. You know." A chilling glare. "Stealing."

There was a moment of familiar panic. Like being struck blind and deaf, with white light shutting off everything except the overwhelming wish to disappear, no matter how. Instant evaporation would be the best, but falling through a convenient hole in the floor would do just as well. Wasn't going to happen, though. A wave of hot blood rushed into her head, inflaming her face. _Fuck._ Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Fuck," she said aloud. "I knew it was a bad idea to bring a cop on board." Another moment of uncertainty, and then she clasped her hands behind her back, stood at ease, and dug her eyes into a spot to the right of Garrus' threatening form.

It wasn't the first time. But damn, she thought she had it all under control. It was that fucking wallet. Otherwise, he'd never have figured her out. Now that he _had_, there was no escaping it.

"So. What's it gonna be? If possible, I'd like to avoid public humiliation. Name your terms, Vakarian, and let's get it over with."

"Terms?"

Shepard couldn't see his face, stubbornly looking at a fixed point on the wall as she was, but he sounded genuinely surprised.

"Yeah," she said. "What do you want in exchange for keeping your mouth shut? Or maybe the word _bribe_ is another archaic term in turian languages?"

"Ha. No." He actually laughed, and when she stole a quick glance at him, he — absurdly — looked more relaxed than when he'd came in. "Not archaic at all. But it _is_ a sort of obscenity."

"Well."

After a few moments of silence that could have been a lot more tense given the circumstances, Garrus stepped into her field of view. "Shepard."

The way he said her name gave her shivers, and she had to look up in his eyes. No longer ice-cold.

"As far as I'm concerned," he said slowly, "this can remain between the two of us. I have no interest in making your um… extracurricular activities… known to anyone else."

She tried to hide a sigh of relief, then stopped halfway through when he said: "But."

_Yep. There's always a _but_._

"I _am_ going to ask you to return the crew's personal items."

She snorted. "No fucking way."

He lifted his eyebrows — or whatever they were — in a universal gesture of skepticism. "It's not really a request."

"It's blackmail," she finished for him.

Garrus shrugged. "Call it my 'terms' if you will."

"Shit." She gave up the defiant posture and put a hand on her forehead, hiding from his eyes. "You don't get it. I don't know if I can do that."

"Sure you can. Just say you found them somewhere." He shifted weight from one foot to the other. "You'll feel good after. You know, the way you feel after doing a good deed. Or undoing a bad one."

"Are you trying to _fix_ me, Vakarian? Not even the pros managed to do that."

"Pros?"

"Yeah. Almost a decade of therapy." _What the fuck. Why are you telling him this?_ "Should probably do some more with all the shit going on recently." _Stop it. Just stop it._

"A decade of therapy for kleptomania? That's a first."

"Not just that." He looked at her, expectant. This time, when the inner voice said _shut the fuck up_, she took heed. "But from what I've seen, I won't be the first Spectre with guests up here." She knocked her knuckles against her skull, offering an uncertain smile.

He didn't quite buy it. His face darkened, curiosity replaced with some kind of grim duty, eyes suddenly focused on the floor. "Yeah."

She bit her lower lip. "It _is_ about Nihlus."

"Well. More about Saren, really. I'm starting to fear we'll never find him. He's always one step ahead, and with Nihlus helping him…"

"We're getting close, Garrus," she said, unable to stop the instinctive pat on his arm, like he was some goddamn recruit in need of encouragement. One of his mandibles flared out in something like a sideways smile. She realized she had never addressed him by name before and her cheeks flushed again. "We'll find him," she concluded clumsily, taking a step back.

"I wish I had your confidence. Seeing him get away with everything he's done would be one tough pill to swallow."

"What do you mean — get away with it?"

He gave her a cautious look. "Aren't you worried that the Council might try to protect him? I mean, they were really dragging their heels before. What if we find him, and bring him back to the Citadel, and — nothing happens?"

Shepard frowned, trying to get back into a mission-related mindset. She turned around and sat on her cot, gesturing at Garrus to take the chair. He shook his head.

"You seem to have some thoughts on this," she said. "Speak your mind."

He straightened up. "Well. Maybe we shouldn't give them the chance. Too much could happen. Nihlus could help him escape, or the Council might let him go. If we find him – _when _we find him – I say we make sure we stop him. Permanently."

_Handle the situation in the way that's best for humanity._

"Take a seat, Vakarian."

There. Mission mindset. She could hear it in the tone of her own voice, see it in his instant obedience. Good, because this shit was serious. It was also personal, and if it had been hinted at before, now it was glaringly obvious. Garrus was sweating. A bead of clear liquid trailed down the side of his neck, where the hide looked darker than usual. For the first time during the conversation, it occurred to her that it hadn't been pleasant for him, either.

Indeed, now it was _he _with a hand on his forehead, hiding from her eyes. "I don't know, Shepard. What is it you humans say? I'm between a rock and a hard place. This feels like betrayal… but anything else is even more so." He looked up at her, stayed there for a moment, then shook his head. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you."

"Some." She licked her lips. They had gotten incredibly dry. "Saren and Nihlus."

Garrus nodded carefully.

"You said they're close. _How _close?"

His mandibles clicked, closing around his chin, then worked up and down, as if he was trying to relax. When he finally spoke, it was in a different tone. "Pledged."

_Whoa_. She knew it was something like that, but— "As in, married?"

"Not in legal terms, if that's what you mean. But… kinda, yeah."

Shepard scratched her head, then tried to smooth her hair back with little to no success. The mindset melted away like a crust of ice. All the things Nihlus had said, the strange reactions, the mysterious smile - his weakness, his absence, fuck, even his unsuccessful attempt at sabotage — it all made sense, and it made her stomach flip. _Jesus Fucking Christ._

"So…" she cleared her throat. "You doubt that Nihlus is capable of dealing with this in a professional manner."

"Would you be?"

She cocked her head at him. What an odd thing to ask. Like he could sense it, smell it. Fucking cop on board. Looking inside hidden places, forbidden places.

Yet she couldn't find it in her to be angry with him.

"Yes," she said. Her voice held.

Garrus ran a hand over his crest. "Maybe you're right. Maybe that's what it takes to be a Spectre."

"Oh, I'm very much with you in doubting Nihlus," she hurried to say. "Perhaps not his _ability _to deal with it as much as his _intentions_." She bit her lip again. "But you probably know more about that than I do."

"What do you mean?"

"You two are friends, aren't you?"

"We don't talk about Saren."

"Maybe you should."

He shook his head. "You don't get it, Shepard. I don't think I can do that."

"Sure you can," she said, keeping eye contact while she felt between the bulkhead and the side of the mattress. "Just say you found it somewhere."

In the second it took him to notice her outstretched hand and the painfully blue ornament in it — God, it would be _blood_-blue for them, wouldn't it? — Shepard experienced an emotion she'd never felt before. Trust, hope and humility, all mixed into a silent plea that had better been obvious from the way she was looking at him, because there was no way in the world she would ever say—

"Please," she whispered.

He blinked at the thing, then lifted it carefully from her sweaty palm.

"You took this from Nihlus?"

A nod. She was pretty sure she'd be unable to speak even if she had worthwhile things to say.

"Do you know what it is?"

A shake of the head.

"It must have been… well. I guess it belonged to one of his parents."

She swallowed. "Nihlus'?"

"No. Saren's. See here?" He traced a group of angular sigils on the back side with his talon. "Arterius."

They sat in silence, just breathing and looking at the ornament, for a whole minute.

"If you expect me to say I'm sorry," she said at last, "that I'm regretful and repentant and that I'll never do it again — you'll be disappointed."

He looked up, but said nothing. Perhaps it was the expressionless turian physiognomy, or her inability to read it, but the lack of judgment in his demeanor was very welcome.

"I'm not," she concluded. "And I'm pretty sure I'll keep doing it till the day I die. Which is, let's face it, likely to be soon, so not that many people will suffer from piquing my curiosity."

"You only steal from people you like?"

She shrugged. "You could say that. People I find interesting."

"Ha. Good thing I'm not among them."

A strangely self-deprecating tone. So entirely undeserved. She couldn't withhold a devilish smile.

"What?" he said. "Even if you wanted to, I brought nothing of value here. Personal or otherwise."

"You sure?"

He didn't waste time replying and focused instead on her hand — rummaging between the mattress and the bulkhead again. The face he made when she showed him the vial was something to remember.

Shepard braced for anger, but his surprise evolved directly into something that almost resembled… admiration. "Son of a bitch," he muttered. "I totally forgot about that."

"Valuable enough?"

He nodded, looking from her to the vial and back into her eyes. "And personal. Shit, Shepard. Do you know what _that_ is?"

"Yes."

The skeptical eyebrow went up again.

"Jeez. Palaven Middle Cobalt 33/C11, also known as Cipritine Blue. Memorized the number because it's 11 and 33. I like nice numbers." She felt the blush crawl up her neck again, and he was helpfully being completely motionless and silent, a fascinated smile plastered to his face.

"I really like the color, too," she added at last.

Garrus coughed, or laughed, or both. "You should know that complimenting colors is considered flirting in my culture."

"Good."

He became serious by degrees, and she held his inquisitive stare as long as she dared. Which wasn't all that long, given her disregard for personal safety in combat. She put the vial inside his hand and a spark fired between her finger and his talon. Neither flinched.

He turned the vial a few times, and then replaced it in her palm. "Keep it."

Shepard wondered if her heartbeat was audible to him. It certainly sounded like it.

"As for the rest… you haven't flirted me into forgetting my 'terms'. I'll take care of Nihlus, but…"

"Yeah. Got it. Under threat of public humiliation and all."

"Exactly."

He got up to leave.

"Garrus?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>#<p> 


	36. Dead Hearts 3

#

* * *

><p><strong>Dead Hearts III<strong>

It was dark inside the cabin. Dark and stuffy. When had he last been in here? Garrus couldn't remember. The emergency lights from the corridor were just about strong enough to paint the vague outlines of the spartan furnishing, a fuzzy stain on the metal floor the only reflection. Nothing to see anyway. A crew cabin like any other. Well. It was still new. You could tell from the sharp edges of the bed frames and the lingering smell of paint. It wasn't enough to drown out the reek of alcohol, though. It alerted him to the other's presence even before he sensed movement on the cot to the right.

"Coming in, or getting out?" Nihlus slurred. "Make up your mind quickly, because there's not much left." The sound of liquid, sloshing about in a metal container, testified to that.

"Coming in," Garrus said and moved away from the door, allowing it to close. Darkness flooded the cabin.

"My man." More sloshing, then a gulp, and a long, heady ahhhh. "Come here."

Something pulled on his arm with ferocious urgency and he lost balance, landing blindly on top of Nihlus. The cot let out an alarming crack. They froze. A heartbeat passed. Another. Garrus had just started to relax when another crack sounded, and everything sank down.

"Shit," he said. When Nihlus laughed, it sounded like it was coming from far away, and Garrus realized, in the pitch black dark, that he had effectively buried Nihlus in the mattress. A strangely arousing thought. "We broke the bed," he muttered.

"Yeah." The fruity scent of whatever Nihlus had been drinking was so heavy on his breath that a man could get drunk just by being close to him. Not that alcohol was required for that. "About fucking time," he added.

The next thing Garrus knew, his mandible was being licked. His mouth, his tongue. He heard himself groaning, his body faster to reach decisions than his head, just like in combat. It was impossible to tell if his eyes were closed or open. Ha. That was applicable to a number of recent situations, not just this… whatever it was… Spirits! Talons digging into his back made him clutch the sheets but the sound of splitting fabric came from his fatigues. That would leave marks. The thought went through him like a flaming arrow, setting everything on fire.

"You always open up so quickly, Vakarian?" Nihlus whispered, grinding against him.

"Fuck you," Garrus managed to utter. He ground back. Resistance was futile. There was just something about this man that made him completely crazy. It was more than lust. Deeper. From inside his chest, working up his throat, words he wanted to say for ten years. "Fuck me."

The reward was immediate and overwhelming. Nihlus whimpered, left a wet trail on the side of Garrus' neck, hooked his leg just under the spur, then bucked up from under him in a violent burst of motion. They toppled over and down on the floor, making a racket that would surely raise many a hairy human eyebrow in the adjoining cabins. Perhaps someone would even try to check in on them, or report them to the Commander, because this sounded like a fight. It felt like a fight too. Clothes being torn, talons slashing over plates, knees and elbows everywhere. Tongues everywhere. Teeth. Nihlus caught his wrists and pinned them to the floor above his head, bearing down. A momentary whiplash of panic transmuted directly to even more arousal, and Garrus braced for a savage thrust, trying to relax—

But instead, something changed.

There was a moment of silence, full of breathing. Then Nihlus shifted to remove his weight from Garrus' chest, leaned down, and kissed his cheek-plate. The next kiss landed on his ear, and the sudden gentleness of the touch was impossible to connect with the feral passion that had led to it. Garrus swallowed. It wasn't _bad_, but—

Nihlus kissed his neck, his shoulder, licked his armpit. He removed one hand from Garrus' wrists, leaving the other to keep up the mock restraint, and ran his talons down Garrus' arm. His body, warm and heavy, damped the shivers. It was moving, snug against Garrus' naked chest, between his legs. Nihlus was unplated, but unbelievably, _he_ was retracting. Something was off about this. Something—

He could clearly hear Nihlus smile at his hesitation, the slightest chafe of spreading mandibles. It felt like he was supposed to speak, maybe apologize or explain himself, but there was no time to even consider it. Because Nihlus rubbed his face into Garrus' cheek, setting off some hidden alarm. He would have proceeded to finish it off with the foreheads, there was no question about it.

Garrus shrunk back. "Stop."

An unintelligible mutter. Nihlus' face was in his neck again.

"Stop it."

He squirmed his hands, but that didn't appear to go over either. He raised his voice. "Nihlus. Let go. Right now."

Nihlus released him. "What?"

He pulled back, hit the door with his head, sat up.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't want to say it. Hell, he didn't even want to think it, but it was out before he could stop it. "You were thinking of _him_, weren't you?"

At first there was nothing. Then Nihlus sat back too.

"Shit."

Shit? Shit? Garrus stared into the darkness in front, waiting for more, but his own heavy breathing was all he could hear. Perhaps the air was so stale because the filter had died. Perhaps that was why he felt like he was suffocating. He opened his mouth, pulling it straight in through a tight, parched throat. Shit indeed. Shit, shit, shit.

Something cold and metallic touched his hand.

"Here," Nihlus said.

It was the flask. Half-empty. He fiddled with the cap with a trembling hand for what felt like half a fucking minute, but it was worth it. Sweet and spicy, but with a mean burn that stripped his throat raw. Good. At least he could breathe again.

"Thanks," he muttered. Ridiculous. A fist in the fucking face, that was what he was supposed to give him, not his fucking thanks. Forearm on the throat, pressure, wheezing and cracking and then nothing. He took another gulp to purge the violent thoughts. Didn't quite work. His mind was replaying their sparring match for him, conveniently slowing down to remind him of all the subtle deficiencies he'd seen, but had chosen to ignore. Slight imbalance during left side kick. Elbows flaring out before a spin. Predictable timing. Like a fucking invitation. The muscles in his right shoulder trembled eagerly at the thought of hitting Nihlus in the face, over and over again, until his anger was spent.

"You're angry."

"No shit," he blurted.

"I got carried away. It won't happen again."

Garrus choked on the booze, but it didn't stop him from laughing. "You can say _that_ again."

The finality of his own words only hit him after another swig. He was no longer sure if it was the alcohol, the anger, or the pain, incinerating his chest from within. Like on his worst days in C-Sec — not even months in the past, yet the memories were as distant as a tale of someone else's life — he found himself longing for his rifle and an elevated position. He'd shoot Nihlus first, of course. Incendiary round to the chest. Oh yes. Liara would be next, and then Wrex, with his fucking lessons for the kids. Dr Chakwas. Pressly. Alenko. Yeah.

He'd let Shepard live.

"Anything left in there?" Nihlus asked.

Garrus tipped the flask and drained it, then hurled it forward, hoping to hit Nihlus in the forehead. "No."

"I bet you're thinking about various ways to hurt me."

He didn't reply. Instead of numbing him down, the drink was feeding the fire.

"I can hear it in your breathing," Nihlus said. He sounded distant and melancholy. Not that Garrus gave a damn. "Heard those harmonics many times. It used to be so easy to anger him. Yawn in the middle of some lecture, or laugh at some inane typo in the mission report. I thought it was me, getting to know him better, or perhaps, growing to be more like him, when he became more tolerant. But now… now I think he was just… _absent_. You know? During these past few years. Making his plans." He swallowed, audibly. "Thinking of Sovereign while he touched me."

Alright, his teeth were numb. And when he opened his mouth to say just how much he didn't give a flying fuck about Nihlus and his feelings for Saren right now, he noticed his tongue was numb too. He smacked it a few times.

"You don't give a shit, do you?" Nihlus said. "I don't blame you. No one ever did."

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"What?"

"You have a whole ship here full of people who do give a shit, that's what. And don't pretend you don't know it. Liara would die for you. Shepard would kill for you. And I… well. I didn't smash your face yet, did I?"

A short outburst of laughter. "Yeah. Gotta give you that."

In the meantime, his ass had gotten numb as well. But when he started to lift himself up, someone tilted the floor at a hazardous angle, and he plopped back down with a thud that sent pins and needles up his spine. It was the booze, he realized. He was drunk.

Nihlus laughed some more. "Should have told you. Kicks right in the head. I bet you didn't see me smuggle _that_ from Noveria. Comes as powder or granules - I found powder. You could fill the Normandy's fuel tank with a couple of kilos. But it takes ages to settle." Sounds of groping around, presumably for the empty flask, came scratching from the other end of the cabin. "Smells great, tastes like shit. Which you could say for a great many things, I guess."

"Cut the crap, Nihlus. Self-pity suits you like a pair of breasts."

"Hey. Breasts are great."

"I wouldn't know."

"Yeah. You 'don't do xeno'. You know, that was a fucking awful thing to say, but I let it slide."

"So I should let this slide, that what you're selling?" His tongue was acting up. "Saying."

The silence that followed was long enough to imagine Nihlus staring at him, sinful promises in glittering eyes eating away at his resolve one second at a time. Good thing the lights were off.

"Which 'this' are we talking about, exactly?" was the reply, laced with caution. "I'm pretty sure you blame me for more than one transgression." He paused. "Though I admit this last one was in poor taste. I'm sorry, Garrus. Probably not what you want to hear, but it would've happened sooner or later."

"You got that right," Garrus muttered, lifting a hand to his forehead. Was it possible to get drunk, sober up, and become hungover on such a short notice? "Not what I want to hear."

_Maybe you should._

Garrus swallowed. His head was far from clear, and he could still sense the anger, lurking just beneath the thin sheet of control he'd managed to spread over it, waiting for the slightest provocation to surface again and make him do something he'd regret. Or not. But there was something new on his mind now, something brought about by Shepard's words. He had no doubt that _she_ would be perfectly able to contain her feelings in this situation, and do the _right_ thing, instead of the _first_ thing that came to mind. Do her duty, no matter the personal cost.

Shit.

"How can you—" he started, choked on it, cleared his throat. His heart was drumming. _Sure you can._ "How can you still… well, trust him, I suppose, after all that's happened?"

He heard Nihlus change position, settle down, then fidget again. Faint vocalizations from the lowest register broke through his breathing.

"That would've been a lot easier to answer if I got some response from him," he said at last. The sadness in his undertones was impossible to hide, impossible to ignore. "Let me try an example instead. You've got a tight-knit family, isn't that right, Vakarian?"

"Well—"

"Try to imagine your sister… Solana, was it? Imagine if there was a civil war and you two ended up on opposing sides. Imagine she had the chance to kill you, but didn't. How would you answer your own question?"

Garrus was too drunk for thought experiments. And even if he weren't, he was pretty sure he couldn't imagine that situation. Perhaps with Dad… but no. That wasn't comparable.

Or was it?

Suddenly he remembered the badge. His hand rummaged through his front pocket, numb and clumsy. What if they had broken it during their romp? Cold sweat washed over his entire skin in one fell swoop.

But then he found it, and it was whole.

"I uh…" He found himself wishing for more of Nihlus' powder-brew. His throat was dry again, and his words reluctant. "I think this belongs to you."

They crawled out of their corners and met in the middle of the cabin. Nihlus' fingers, feeling first his wrist, than his hand, were as cold as his own. They froze when they touched the badge. Then they closed around it.

But Nihlus didn't move away. His breathing was getting louder and louder. He didn't sound angry. He sounded—

"Shepard?" he whispered.

"No."

"You can't lie worth a shit."

"I know."

Garrus realized his hand had closed itself around Nihlus'. He shook his head. The anger had gone missing. It had burned its way out of him, leaving a huge hole behind that he'd probably need another fucking ten years to fill.

"You have friends here," he heard himself repeating, pointlessly.

"Angry friends."

"Dependable friends."

"Is that so?"

"As long as they can depend on you too."

"I see."

The contact was severed and they retreated to their corners again. A minute passed in silence. It was strangely silent inside Garrus' hazy mind as well. Silent and lonely.

"Fine," Nihlus said at last. But another minute of fidgeting and quickened breathing passed before he actually made the concession.

It consisted of a single word.

"Virmire."

#

Shepard left Engineering, intending to go find Alenko. But before she could go anywhere, Adams ambushed her. He had a problem with a requisition for crucial spares and a fucked-up trail of paperwork that absolutely couldn't wait. It took her the better part of two hours, talking with surly clerks from five different departments of Alliance Logistics Command, to get it straightened out. By the time she finally went to hand him the necessary authorizations, she was ready to kill someone. The astonished gratitude in his eyes when she gave him back his precious combat engineer uniform patch was almost enough to make her forget about the ache in her neck. Almost. Her end of the bargain with Garrus made her feel like Santa Claus. Putting smiles on people's faces. And being unable to get one of her own.

It was late. Too late to talk to Alenko, wherever he was. Probably asleep, like she wished she was. But she wanted to get something to eat before she turned in. She headed over to the mess to grab some rations. The place was deserted, but there was a datapad lying on the nearest table. Shepard picked it up. The display flickered on, briefly showing an extranet search result for — what else — porn vids, then went dark, asking for a password to unlock.

She rolled her eyes. Everybody did it, but most had the sense not to leave the evidence lying around… Who did the pad belong to? If only she'd been there ten seconds earlier. She glanced around, by there was nobody in sight. A moment of stillness, uncertainty, than a decision, and the familiar, sweet stab of excitement. She bit her lower lip and typed in the first thing that crossed her mind.

_Singapore_

The datapad flashed orange at her. That wasn't it.

_Jump Z3r0_

Nope. Too obvious. Alenko was better than that. The datapad notified her she'd get locked out permanently if she failed again.

To hell with it. One more chance. Let's try… the mass effect equation? That went like—

She heard the door opening elsewhere on the deck. The restroom. Of course. Perhaps it wasn't too late to talk to Alenko after all. Or perhaps it wasn't him. She considered simply putting the datapad back down where she found it and pretending she'd never picked it up. But she didn't. Instead, she focused on losing the devilish smile.

She heard the footsteps before she saw the owner. She took a deep breath. Alenko rounded the corner and froze at the sight of her holding the datapad.

"Alenko," she said.

He swallowed. "Commander."

She held up the datapad. "Personally, I would have taken this with me. Or at least locked it."

"It locks itself after twenty seconds of inactivity," he said, tonelessly.

She nodded. "So, just bad luck I happened to show up when I did. And bad luck that your CO's a nosy bastard. Or maybe good luck, depending on your point of view."

He said nothing. Whatever was going through his mind, whatever he was feeling, it wasn't showing on his face. His expression was completely neutral.

"Relax, Alenko," she said, dropping the pad on the table. "Didn't get to to see anything I haven't seen a thousand times before."

"If you say so, sir."

She looked at him, but he wasn't giving her anything. He might as well been a block of granite. No sign of relief, of dropping his guard. Hell, if she could have had her wish, she'd wanted to have seen a measure of _disappointment_. Surely he knew that she was interested. There had been looks. Smiles. Compliments. Difficult to say if any of if had qualified as flirting. He'd been keeping a respectful distance, but hadn't seemed adverse to the idea.

"Kaidan," she said. It came out a lot easier than it would have a month ago.

Was that a flicker of something in his eyes? If so, it was gone in an instant.

"Did I pronounce it the wrong way?"

"No, sir."

"I looked it up, you know."

"Yes, sir."

She scratched her head. _Fuck._ He was going to make her work for every word. With this yessir-nosir bullshit. The back of her neck was seriously aching now but she didn't touch it, because she could feel him looking at her. _God, Alenko, I really don't want to be doing this._

"It's Shepard. I'm not here on business."

He was perfectly still for several heartbeats. Then he sighed, letting his shoulders drop down a notch. "Alright."

_Finally_. She too let out a breath she'd been holding. Why was this so goddamn difficult?

_Ah, right._

"I uh…" She pushed a hand in her front pocket, already feeling the blush burn the way up her cheeks. "Is this yours?"

The glass beads got heavier and heavier with each second he spent looking at them, and she could have sworn there was a hundred fucking seconds.

"Garrus told me you were looking for something like this," she added, feeling like a drowning man. "I picked it up from the floor near your cabin." That much was true, at least. Within a meter or two. Come on, Alenko. _Kaidan_. Give me a hand, here. We don't have to be best friends, but let's not be… strangers.

Unexpectedly, he said softly, "Said my goodbyes to that."

She blinked. "What is it?"

His gaze was still fixed on her hand. "Years ago, in Brain Camp—" He glanced up, a quick question in his eyes.

She nodded. Almost ended up there herself.

"There was a girl I spent a lot of time with… Rahna. She was from Turkey. Her family was very rich. But she was smart. And charming as hell. Beautiful, but not stuck-up about it. Like you, I guess. Sir."

Shepard swallowed. "Sounds like she was special to you."

"She was." He looked at her, looked down at her hand again. "Maybe she felt the same. But things never fell together." He shrugged. "Training, you know."

"Yeah," she said, although she didn't. This was already more than she had bargained for and she just wanted him to take the damn thing from her hand, hanging in the air between them, neither here nor there.

"Anyway, the tasbih was a gift from her."

"Tasbih," she muttered, then shook her head. "Didn't know what it's called."

Alenko gave her a quick smile. Just stretching his lips, really, but at least he was making an effort. He offered a hand and she was relieved to let the _tasbih_ roll down from her sweaty palm. She had a feeling this trinket would have been better off left next to her mattress, but funnily enough, she no longer wanted it.

"Thank you, Shepard," he said, looking about as grateful to receive it as she had been eager to offer it. "I'll have to take better care of it."

"No problem."

A heavy silence set upon them. The same old story. Now that Alenko has dropped his guard, or at least demonstrated the will to do it, hers was coming up again and there was nothing she could do about it. It took no effort to imagine them both stark naked, slick with sweat, fucking like animals on the very table that stood between them. But imagining them having a relaxed, personal, slow conversation was next to impossible.

Fortunately, her omni intervened. A message from Vakarian.

"Shit," she snorted. "The skull-face delivered."

"Excuse me?"

She looked up at him. "Get your ass in gear, Alenko. We've got ourselves a mission."

* * *

><p>Another note: Parts of this chapter have been reproduced with permission from the most excellent story "Breathe" by Logsig. It can be found at AO3 (tinyurl code <strong>breathe-by-logsig<strong>). Highly recommended, but please heed the warnings.


	37. The Vault

#

* * *

><p><strong>The Vault<strong>

_Four hours before the attack on Virmire._

"How do you feel?"

_Like a madman, about to run into an unsuspecting crowd with twenty kilos of explosives strapped to his chest. _

He didn't say that. He didn't say anything for a long time, looking for the right words. It seemed inevitable that words would fail. _Nobody has ever done anything like this_; she'd said so herself. What good would his answer do if there was no point of comparison, no context to give it meaning?

He felt… a restlessness in his limbs. A kind of itch, deep inside his muscles, a longing to flex and stretch mixed with a certainty that no amount of flexing or stretching could make it go away. Only a savage release of power could make it go away. Yet, he didn't precisely want to be rid of the tension. It was enjoyable in itself, like sexual excitement.

He felt… a strange alertness to minute stimuli that normally got filtered out. The light reflecting from her teeth when she spoke; the shadows of her many fingers when she tapped them against keys in rapid succession; the minuscule bumps of night insects hitting the windows from the outside.

He felt… a profound exhaustion, not of body but of mind and soul, lurking all around the edges of his awareness, closing in on him when he wasn't paying attention so that his island of control and clarity seemed smaller and smaller every time he looked at it.

But none of that would be of use to her.

"Strange," Saren said at last, then shook his head. "I don't know."

"Any pain or discomfort?"

"No."

"Any pins and needles?"

"In the back."

Rana nodded, and stepped behind him. He heard the diagnostic drone come online and felt the focused warmth of its lasers trailing along his spine. When they touched the amplifiers, the pins and needles turned into burning. And then, it was all gone, both the tickle and the burn.

"Better?"

"Yes."

"I adjusted the voltage. Can you repeat the test, please?"

He put his right hand on the steel sphere.

"Try the left hand."

He turned to look at her. His movement was reluctant. There was indeed neither pain nor discomfort in his neck anymore, but his body had yet to start believing it.

"What difference does it make? I prefer the right."

Her dotted tattoos, presumably intended to mimic hairy human eyebrows, lifted up in equal parts surprise and apprehension. He hadn't intended to growl at her, but he didn't intend to apologize for it either.

"Oh, certainly, certainly." She licked her lips nervously. "But… as I'm sure you know… biotics are heavily affected by bipedal neural symmetries. Right hand – left hemisphere; left hand – right hemisphere. We need to make sure the nerve conductivity and amp response times on both sides are the same, else you risk another overload."

The image her words evoked in his mind was vivid and hypnotizing. He pictured himself, facing Nihlus in combat, and reaching – unwillingly – to deal a lethal biotic blow with his left hand, and at the same time, reaching to stop the motion with his right hand. A nightmarish struggle where he literally, physically, fought himself, the organic against the synthetic, the emotional against the reasonable, to the horror of his lover and adversary. In the end, the synthetic part, placing no value on the ephemera of a mortal's sense of unique self, destroyed him whole by abusing his bipedal neural symmetry.

But of course that wasn't what she meant. He shook the image off, saying, "The overload had nothing to do with... symmetry violation." He hesitated, though it made no sense to keep it a secret. Her usefulness was directly proportional to the completeness and accuracy of the information he made available to her. Yet he didn't want to tell her. Something inside him was mounting a resistance. He swallowed. "It was—"

"Direct control."

He was relieved to find no traces of _sympathy_ in her expression. If anything, she appeared to be fascinated.

"I guessed as much from the trauma to neural tissue. I'd say you've taken it… prodigiously well." She licked her lips again. "I'd say you're being handled with great care, sir."

_Is that so._

A silence fell in the lab, interwoven with the muted drone of instruments and ventilation and the distant vibration of the power generators not far below. Saren had never been here before, but it seemed familiar enough; sometimes it seemed he had spent as much of his life in labs and hospitals as he had in the field.

"Sir? It is highly recommended that you do this test anyway."

He sighed. "I never used the prosthetic hand for biotics. I don't even know if I can."

"I don't see why not. If I remember correctly—" she paged through his medical records, conspicuously spread over the primary display, "your axillary nodule was untouched. Anyway, you must have gone through tests such as this before. It's standard procedure."

"Not since… the accident." There it was again, the resistance, the same kind of resistance. He heaved a heavy breath. "The last implantation was before."

"Uh… I beg to differ, sir. These last two are recent."

_Yes, of course they are._ They had to be. How could he have forgotten? He shivered at her slight touch, fingertips on the small of his back, sparks jumping to meet them. But he barely noticed, caught in a dizzying swirl of half-recollections. Not eight, not nine. _Ten_.

His island, surrounded by an unending dark ocean, suddenly shrank to a pinpoint. Saren had to invest all his faculties into pushing back the despair.

"Goddess," she whispered. "You didn't know."

He made no reply. Instead, he put his left hand on the sphere and released the accumulated power in a dramatic, wild display. Blue sparks exploded up like fireworks, then rained down gently on his bare feet. Rana took a step back, leaving her probe to hover behind his nape and do the measurements. It was almost disappointing to conclude the feeling was exactly the same as in his living hand. He wanted to laugh at the prejudice that had kept him from using many excellent two-handed mimetics ever since the accident, but couldn't find it in him.

"Sir," she said, standing still at a respectable distance behind him, "it should be safe to speak in here. Won't you tell me what happened?"

_Safe_ made him snort. No place was safe, no matter how heavily shielded. The Vault was a joke; otherwise, Sovereign would have rooted it out long ago. Still, he closed his eyes and shifted focus inwards, out of curiosity. Its pulse was barely perceptible, but it was there all right.

"Isn't it obvious?" he said at last. "My memories have been tampered with. What else is there to tell?"

The fascination gleamed in her eyes again. "Tampered with? So far we've only seen evidence of random memory corruption in test subjects, without any hint at _intention_. Tampering implies fine control. This is useful information, sir."

"There's been plenty of random corruption too," he murmured.

"Oh, certainly, certainly. It's to be expected at your level of cognitive independence. Which is, again, nothing short of miraculous, given your proximity to the source and the length of exposure."

"There's nothing miraculous about it. Sovereign needs me."

"Exactly my point, sir. The less freedom a subject has, the less useful it becomes."

Saren eyed her suspiciously. "What's your level of cognitive independence, Thanoptis?"

"Uh… eighty one percent as of the last evaluation."

"And Droyas'?"

"Holding steady at seventy seven."

"How about the krogan subjects outside the Vault?"

"Typical decay rates range from three to five percent per week."

"So you think it's working."

"For krogan. Not so well for salarians. Their decay rates are between fifteen and twenty percent outside, and half that inside the Vault, though these numbers come from a severely limited sample and almost certainly suffer from selection effects. The susceptibility seems to correlate with the average intelligence of the species. Not as much as with the physiological factors, of course." She tapped her forehead with her finger and smiled unhappily. "Squishy craniums."

"Yes."

The unbidden memories of Benezia's degradation made his world shrivel up again. He wasn't far from that stage himself. At his "level of cognitive independence", only two out of five of his decisions could be considered unaffected. That was disastrous, not _miraculous_. True, Benezia's last evaluation had yielded barely more than twenty percent, but _his _last result had been almost fifty, so he was on a steep downward slope. Perhaps his results were contaminated by receiving the Cipher and by the trauma of "direct control", and his mind was still his own. Or perhaps his mind itself was contaminated, and the results were actually a lot worse than he was ready to admit.

Rana shifted, and he realized he had no idea how long he'd been standing in silence. "Are we done here?"

"Yes, sir. Everything seems to be in order. But I'd like to remind you that I was against the procedure in the first place and that I can't recommend—"

"Your concern is noted."

#

His chambers inside the Vault had a gorgeous view. It was dawn, and birdsong flowed from outside, though no birds would be seen. Only their shadows flitted among the bushy crowns of gnarled trees, growing in reluctant pairs and threes, and only their echoes disturbed the tall grasses that lined the coast.

Other things came in, carried on the chilly morning breeze. The salty, fishy smell of the ocean, the steady beat of breakers lapping up the little beach. The silver sands of Virmire glimmered in the sunrise. The air itself seemed to glimmer. It would be a perfect day, with just enough scattered clouds to make for dramatic vistas, and just enough wind to make the grasses and the ocean ripple alike.

_You know you can't hide this place forever_, said a voice from the past. _Sooner or later, someone's going to recognize it as the prime vacation spot it rightfully should be. Your ugly war base will be turned into a tourist attraction, or – ha, this is good – a weird, military-themed hotel. You know, with all the staff wearing uniforms and toy side-arms and saluting the guests._

Saren snorted.

_No no no, bear with me. I can just imagine it – this would be the VIP suite. Extra charge for the view! I mean, just look at that. Look at it and tell me it's not fucking beautiful._

"It is," he whispered to the wind. "It's fucking beautiful."

He always felt that building the facility on these shores offended the spirits of the silver and blue. But the stone was easy to work, the white forests further inland provided sturdy wood for construction, and there was no location like it on the entire planet in terms of seismic stability. And even if it could have been done elsewhere, it was too late for regrets now. It was too late to change his mind.

The voice laughed at his brooding. _Come on, it's not such a bad image, is it? We could retire here one day. You'll be the grumpy, impossibly rich, eccentric veteran carrying his famous collection of prototype weapons with him wherever he goes. You know, just in case. And I… I'll be your pet. _

He closed his eyes and shook his head, but couldn't shake the smile off his face, nor the crushing sadness that suddenly squeezed his chest so he could hardly breathe.

"No," he muttered. "Stop it. Stop it, stop it, stop it."

_Wake the fuck up! It was too late for Benezia, but it's not too late for you._

Two out of five. Forty percent, Nihlus, that's how late it is.

_Just get out of there and we'll find a way to deal with it, like we dealt with much worse. Together._

There _is_ no worse. This is the end of everything. There's no going back, for any of us. Why can't you see? If I don't see this through, _everyone_ will perish. Everything we know, everything we learned. It will all be for nothing.

_I'm not asking you. Either surrender — or I'll make you._

Saren swallowed. He became aware that his heart was beating heavily, and that there was a soft glow around him, like a layer of blue mist just micrometers above his skin.

_Calm down. Fear attracts attention._

I do not _fear_ Nihlus.

_So does anger._

He drew a deep breath, then another one, and another one. The glow dissipated in the crisp light of the new day. The pulse sounded more distant than ever. Perhaps Rana was right, and it was working.

Not that it mattered. After two decades of immense investment, research, testing and analysis, there was exactly one thing known for sure: there was no recovery. The process was degenerative, irreversible. Especially with the added friendly benefits of trauma to the neural tissue.

_Shut up, or they'll start listening._

I have nothing to hide.

_Is that so._

The beep made him jerk. But it was only the front door bell. Droyas was there, turning a great golden eye at the security camera. Saren put some clothes on and allowed him in.

"Battlemaster," said the old krogan, taking position in the elevated anteroom, with several shallow steps leading down to the office where Saren had taken a seat at his desk.

"Droyas," Saren replied, in the same slow, respectful tone. "What news?"

"The human vessel is in the system. Their cloaking technology couldn't mask the ME flash when they negotiated the relay. But we only have their entry vector. They could be anywhere."

"They will attempt to land here."

Droays nodded, and Saren could almost see the wheels turning. "Two hours, assuming no delays."

Saren nodded back. "What's Sovereign's status?"

"Hiding above the north pole. Undetectable, unless they know exactly where to look."

Clever. Now he needed to be clever too. "They won't risk landing the ship. They'll drop an infiltration team first, to disable a portion of planetary defenses." He paused for effect. "Instruct the geth to let them."

The golden eyes narrowed on him. "For what purpose?"

"I'm asking the questions."

"Battlemaster." More than anything, it was a growl. Saren paid it no heed.

"Make sure they understand I need the turian and the asari alive. They're not to be harmed. The others are dispensable."

"If you say so."

"And when they do land the ship, it's not to be touched."

"Very well."

Saren waited to see if the krogan would ask his questions anyway. He didn't. Good. "What's the status of your units?"

Droyas shrugged. He mulled it, then spat it out. "You saw what they're like."

"Brash, brutal and insolent? Sounds like model krogan youth."

But Droyas was shaking his head. "They're not ready. We're only just beginning."

"We're out of time. Make them ready." Now _he _mulled it. "And prepare an escape route."

A long, tense silence vibrated between them like an invisible wire, plucked high in the middle. The krogan's gaze was heavy, trusting, obliging. At last, Saren succumbed.

"If it all goes to hell – Droyas, old friend – you must flee to Tuchanka. With everything you need to resume your work. Take a ship, and whatever equipment, data and men you want. Do you understand?"

Droyas was frowning, and when he spoke, the delicate crystal sculpture on Saren's desk, representing the Fiery Petals Nebula, resonated. "I understand. But I don't like it."

"I don't need you to like it. I need you to do as I say. Don't think about it as running. Think about what we have accomplished here, and what it could mean for your people."

Still frowning, and after what seemed innumerable seconds, Droyas slowly nodded. "I will do as you say."

"Start at once."

But instead of taking the hint and leaving, Droyas remained there, standing still, a huge, looming figure, demanding his answers.

Saren sighed. "Speak if you must. But be quick."

"Why let them through if there's a possibility of a massive attack?"

"There isn't. It's just one ship."

"Plus the salarian forces."

"Thus the backup plan."

"Stinks of delaying for time."

"Exactly. But that's none of your business."

"Battlemaster."

"Anything else?"

"The turian who's not to be harmed – is it Nihlus?"

"It is."

"So he sided against you."

"He did."

Saren already had a 'that's none of your business either' for the expected 'so why spare him?' but Droyas wisely chose to back off at that point. He nodded, and turned to leave.

#

One hour passed. Saren spent it in preparation. He put on his suit of armor and let it interface with his implants and his prosthetic arm. He cleaned his pistol, then ran all the available system diagnostics. He sharpened the cutting edges on his combat gloves and checked the grooves and magnets on his boots. But no amount of preparation would mitigate the foolishness of going out into the field with new, untested amplifiers. Every time he thought of it, the strange sensations along his spine, the little currents, the trickling, the tickling, would come into focus and distract him. How easy it would be to go too far, reach too deep in rage or fear, and lose control. He could see it so clearly it must have been an image from some forgotten nightmare: a runaway reaction, igniting a biotic spark in every cell, every molecule of his body, until his flesh was vaporized in one final bright burst. He had an idea what it would feel like. Sovereign had given him a taste.

When there was nothing more to do, he left his chambers through the back door and ascended the metal staircase. The Vault ended somewhere between the first and the second landing. There was no wall to mark its borders, no door to signify coming in or going out. No sign, no warning. It was invisible to the unaided eye. Saren thought he could see its minuscule flickers now and then, but always at the edges of his field of view and never in the direction he was looking at. He also thought he could hear it, but Rana assured him its acoustic frequencies were far above the hearing range of any sapient being, even one sporting his impressive menagerie of cybernetic upgrades.

Still, that was how he knew he was no longer inside it. Dry, rational dread washed over him, a disgust learned rather than instinctive, like the feeling one gets when stepping near some seemingly lifeless yet viciously radioactive thing. He knew the Vault was no more than a thin, fragile barrier, but even such meager protection was better than none. Despite the hard weight of his combat suit, he was naked. Despite his weapons and powers and armies, he was helpless. Helpless against Sovereign, and the growing darkness within.

But there was no turning back. The stairs led to a wide platform, and on it was the beacon. How oddly plain it looked now, now that he knew what it was, now that he knew the word for it in the tongue of its makers. It wasn't a word his mouth could form, but his mind could think it, wrap around its intended simplicity. Seeing it for what it truly was made him think of a starless night out alone, squinting at the moving, breathing shapes in the dark and guessing what dangerous creatures they belonged to until it was revealed, in the light of dawn, that they had only been bushes heaving in the wind.

The beacon was inert. Saren turned instead to the holographic interface, on standby atop a final flight of steps. He approached it. Usually that was enough. This time, nothing happened.

He exhaled and closed his eyes. The pulse was still very faint, very far.

I need to speak to you, he thought with great purpose, but he immediately knew it wouldn't be enough.

He opened his eyes and stared at the useless symbols. There was something deeply repulsive about speaking aloud, alone as he obviously was. Like it would mark the final step into madness. Ridiculous. He tried to laugh at it, but didn't quite succeed. His heart was thumping too hard for laughter.

He swallowed and closed his eyes again, _reaching._

"Nazara."

The word sounded meaningless and hollow compared to the profound emotion he experienced saying it. He had never said it aloud before. Only in his dreams.

Nothing happened, but encouraged by his ability to overcome the petty embarrassment, Saren kept speaking.

"I need you to hear me."

His breathing was deep and labored, and words slow to come.

"I'm losing my faith—"

The knot in his throat was thick and hard to swallow.

"I need to know – it's no longer obvious – that you'll keep your end of the bargain. That you won't break the oath you made to my people the way you broke your oath to me. I agreed to serve – but I won't be a mindless tool."

It burned like acid, like salt in a wound, shame mixed with anger, helpless, ineffective anger. He'd had something different in mind on the way to the altar, and he was no longer sure he wanted to be heard, to be seen in this pathetic state. Still, he kept speaking.

"I need to know—" He drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I need to know – what am I to you?"

Nothing happened.

And then—

_Proof._

He jumped at the sound that made no sound, blinked wildly as if woken from a dream. Everything was as silent and as unmoving as when he had entered, but now, the empty space seemed pregnant with a presence.

"Proof of what?" he said cautiously, somewhat self-conscious again, now that it turned out his confession had been heard after all.

But he needed to be quiet in order to hear. He exhaled again, closing his eyes, trying not to think.

_Possibility._

Saren gnashed his teeth. This was no time for riddles and mysteries. "_What_ possibility?"

But it took a while before he was calm enough to hear the reply.

_Synthesis._

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><p><em>#<em>


	38. The Cure

#

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><p><strong>The Cure<strong>

_One hour before the attack on Virmire._

The salarians on the beach looked tense. If they were to start shooting, Shepard would be the first to go. She turned and aimed a semi-alarmed glance at Nihlus, who trailed her by a few steps, but he shook his head: keep your weapons down and you'll be fine.

They were wading through the shallows, stirring up the fine sand and leaving a murky trail in the turquoise water. The morning sun was burning bright and hot on her uncovered head. The ground team was out in force, now that the Normandy had landed, and advanced in a loose wedge formation behind her.

There was a camp set up in the wispy, wavering shade of the trees on the sandy bank. At first glance, there seemed to be enough room and supplies for a whole company, but there were only a dozen men in the welcoming committee.

A green-scaled, red-eyed salarian came forward when Shepard stepped upon dry land. Williams took position to her left. "So what are we supposed to do now?" she whispered, much too loudly. The salarian eyed her, but didn't say a thing.

"Are you in charge here?" Nihlus said, shaking wet sand off his boots. "What's the situation?"

"And who might you be?"

"Nihlus Kryik, ST&R. You?"

The salarian blinked, processing. "I'm Captain Kirrahe. Third Infiltration Regiment, STG. You and your crew have just landed in the middle of a hot zone. Every AA gun within ten miles has been alerted to your presence."

Meanwhile, Alenko had taken up position on Shepard's right. The others halted, looked around, and exchanged vague, wordless greetings with the salarian soldiers.

"What's the STG doing here?" Nihlus said, unfazed.

"Waiting for reinforcements," the salarian replied, equally unfazed.

Nihlus laughed. "Come on. We're all friends here, right? I'm sure that whatever it is you're doing, you can tell a Spectre?"

"We came here to investigate reports of geth activity. And I have already lost half my men, investigating."

"So what have you found?" Alenko said.

The salarian ignored him and spoke to Nihlus instead. "Saren's base of operations. I see you recognize the name? Good. Saves me the explanations. He set up a research facility here, but it's very well fortified and crawling with geth. Am I to understand the Council sent you to deal with him?"

When Nihlus gave a nod of grim confirmation, Williams scoffed. "Right," she drawled. Shepard shot a warning glance at her. It really wasn't the best time.

"Is he here?" Nihlus said, ignoring the interruption, and Shepard thought she could hear the anxiety in his voice. "Have you seen him?"

"No, but the geth are everywhere, and we've intercepted some comms referring to him."

"What's Saren researching?" said Shepard. Nihlus had given them the where, but couldn't (or wouldn't) say what.

But now, the salarian seemed like he was weighing how much he should share. The shiny globes of his eyes changed focus several times between her, Nihlus, and, interestingly, Wrex, before he spoke again.

"He's using the facility to breed an army of krogan."

His voice rang clear in the morning air. Tali, Garrus, and Liara stepped closer to listen. Nihlus let out an ironic snort, and Shepard remembered what he'd said on Noveria: with the geth and the rachni, Saren needed only the krogan to close the circle. But if Captain Kirrahe expected them to gape or drop everything they were holding in surprise, he was talking to the wrong crew. After everything they'd been through, this sounded like a regular day at the office.

Perhaps not to everyone, though.

"How is that possible?" said Wrex. He stepped forward, towering over the salarian like a storm cloud over a lonely tree.

"Apparently, Saren has discovered a cure for the genophage."

Ok, _now _was time to gape and drop everything that they were holding.

Nihlus spoke first. "How long has the STG known about this?"

"Known? For a week. Suspected? For a decade. Why?"

Nihlus turned away instead of answering and put some distance between himself and the group. Shepard watched his retreat with an uneasy mixture of concern and suspicion. What was on his mind? What did he know that they didn't? Why was he refusing to share? And most of all: what was he going to do if they found Saren? She hated that she had no clue. Going into battle not knowing what the enemy had in mind was one thing; not knowing what a supposed _ally_ had in mind was something completely different.

Captain Kirrahe watched him leave as well, then turned to Shepard. "Obviously, we must ensure that this facility and its secrets are destroyed."

"Destroyed?" Wrex said. "I don't think so. My people are dying. This cure can save them."

"If that cure leaves this planet, the krogan will become unstoppable," Kirrahe replied, shrugging. "We can't make the same mistake again."

"We are not a mistake!" Wrex snarled. He looked like he wanted to say, or growl, more, but Nihlus had returned and put a hand on his arm, nudging him back. Wrex broke away from the grip and pushed Nihlus aside, then stomped away.

"Is he going to be a problem?" Kirrahe said, and Shepard found herself wishing she could wipe the condescension off his face with a good punch. "We already have enough angry krogan to deal with."

"He'll be fine," Nihlus said. "I'll talk to him."

"I'd appreciate that, Spectre. My men and I need to rethink our plan of attack. Can you give us some time?"

Nihlus nodded, then left after Wrex. Kirrahe went into one of the tents without so much as giving anyone another glance.

"Looks like things are a bit of a mess," Alenko said.

"Yeah," Williams replied. "I wouldn't be so worried if it wasn't for Wrex. He looks like he's going to blow a gasket."

"You think I should go see what's going on?" said Shepard.

"It wouldn't hurt. Well… it might, actually. Just be careful."

"Yeah. But be ready, just in case."

"I'm always ready."

Alenko snorted at that, and Shepard heard them bickering as she walked away. Wrex and Nihlus had gone a good distance, but now they stopped, and the way they were gesturing didn't inspire confidence.

"… but we don't know all the facts yet," Nihlus was saying.

"Don't push me, kid," Wrex growled, pointing a threatening finger at Nihlus. "I followed you this far because I like you, and because I owe you. But if you can't give me a better reason than this to destroy the hopes of my people, I'm done with you."

"We can work this out, Wrex, but you've got to calm down."

"Work it out? Work it out? There's_ a cure for my people_. _You _want to destroy it. Help me out here, kid. What's there to work out?"

"You're not listening," Nihlus gritted, and Shepard realized she'd never seen him angry before. "We need to stop whatever Saren is doing here. That might require destroying the facility, yes. But not necessarily the _research_."

_Whoa._ Shepard stopped short. "Nihlus? What are you doing?"

"Stay out of this, Shepard," Wrex warned, pointing the finger at her, but never taking his enraged red eyes off Nihlus. "What are you saying, kid?"

Nihlus glanced at Shepard, then took a step closer to Wrex and started speaking in a quick whisper, but she could hear him well enough. "Listen, Wrex. I know none of you believe in this shit about the Reapers and whatnot – I barely believe it myself, and I've fucking _seen_ it happen. But suppose – just for a moment – that they're real, and that they're coming. Imagine a hundred, or a thousand ships the size of Sovereign. The Council has nothing against that kind of a force and the others, even less. So… what I'm saying is…" his eyes darted to Shepard again, and they were alight with an excitement that didn't look altogether healthy. "If we salvage the research… I want your word that the krogan will stand with us against the Reapers."

Wrex didn't move a muscle, but his gaze became even more intense. Obviously he was thinking about it. And… _hell_. It was certainly something to think about, but it was crazy, completely crazy! Everyone knew how dangerous the krogan were, what a threat they'd represent if they were to ever again appear in significant numbers.

"Nihlus?" she repeated. But when he didn't even look at her, she turned to the krogan. "Wrex? Please tell me you're not considering this?" Because, she suddenly realized, if there was anyone who could make such a deal in the name of all krogan with a straight face, it was Urdnot Wrex. "Come on, Wrex," she whispered, something like panic creeping under her skin. "Are you sure that's what you want for your people? To be puppets again? Tools to be used and discarded?"

Finally he looked at her. "Of course not. We were tools for the Council once, and to thank us for wiping out the rachni, they neutered us all. But without the genophage… we would be unstoppable."

"I'm not speaking for the Council," Nihlus said. "We're not telling the salarians either. This stays between us. Understood?"

That was meant for Shepard, and she could do nothing to stop the laughter. "You've gone mad. Can you even hear yourself? This is fucking insane."

"Perhaps. But tell me, Shepard: how will we defend ourselves if the Reapers really come? You've seen what _one _of them can do, for fuck's sake, you should be the first to support me here."

"And what if they don't come back? What if they don't exist? You'll have decided for the whole galaxy that krogan should be given free rein! No offense, Wrex."

"I'd rather deal with the enemy I know," Nihlus replied.

"No – no. What you're proposing here is to counteract a vague, uncertain threat that might not manifest itself in a hundred generations, by introducing a known, and _deadly_ threat that could come around and bite your ass within months!"

"It doesn't have to be that way, Shepard," Wrex said. "The rebellions are a thousand years behind us. I have to believe that we've learned something in that time. The promise of a cure could unite the clans, and with a strong leader… I know we can keep ourselves in check as well as anyone else. But we never had a chance to try. Look me in the eye, Shepard, and tell me you think that genophage is _right_. I dare you."

She stared at him stubbornly. "Fuck," she said at last, "you know I don't think it's right. But it's not my decision to make. It's not _our_ decision to make, not here, not like this. This needs to be thought about and considered by people smarter than we are."

"You think some dalatrass on Sur'Kesh can make a better decision than you, Shepard? An _unbiased_ decision? Think again. If they get wind of this," he pointed back at the camp, "they'll make sure none of us leaves this planet alive."

"The only thing we need to decide right now," Nihlus said, "is what to do if we get our hands on the research. Nobody's making any guarantees about the future of the krogan. I offer a chance in exchange for a promise, nothing else."

Shepard lifted her hands up and ran her fingers through her hair, clawing at her scalp. She didn't really have much choice. What could she do? Say, _nah, I'm gonna tell the salarians after all_, and set off an armed conflict or get shot from behind? Wrex and Nihlus would have no qualms about eliminating her over a matter of this scale, and she didn't need to be told that the salarians would sooner die than let a krogan – or anyone else – get away with the cure. On a personal level, she felt that Nihlus and Wrex were right, that giving krogan a chance was the right thing to do. But the consequences would be impossible to predict. For all she knew, by agreeing to their proposal, she could be sentencing a dozen outlying human colonies to destruction. But if Nihlus was right, and these Reapers were real, she could be sentencing those same colonies to something far worse, by opposing it.

"Fuck," she repeated. "Alright. Alright. I'll back you up. But you owe me big time, got it? Both of you."

Nihlus nodded seriously. "Wrex?" he said.

"I already made up my mind, kid. We can do this, or you can try to kill me. But I'm not letting you destroy the cure."

"We can do this," Nihlus said. He drew a deep breath and nodded some more. "We can do this."

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><p>#<p> 


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